


Dream Sequence

by Rose0Jam



Series: Dream Sequence Universe [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Eventual Romance, F/M, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, Mentor Severus Snape, Mentor/Protégé, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2019-11-24 14:49:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 106,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18166589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rose0Jam/pseuds/Rose0Jam
Summary: Your name is Gwendolyn Goode.  You’re a bright Hufflepuff with a knack for potions, and this is the story of how an understanding and trust between yourself and Professor Severus Snape slowly evolves over the years into mentorship, friendship, and eventual romance.





	1. Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: This is the first chapter of what will eventually be a much longer Snape x Reader/OC fic. Dream Sequence is a muli-part Snape/Original Female Character fiction, told in the 2nd person, which also sort of makes it a Snape/Reader fiction. To read more about Dream Sequence, please click here: [FAQ](https://rose0jam.tumblr.com/post/183557254163/faq) . Un-betaed because I’m afraid to let anyone I know read this. Oh god here we go.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1st year. The budding of an unlikely kinship with your churlish potions professor begins after finding common ground in hating the same bullshit.

Your name is Gwendolyn Goode.  You’ve been at Hogwarts for a grand total of two weeks, and you are already entirely disenchanted with the wizarding world.  Of course, it was all terribly captivating at first; growing up in a muggle home, it would have been impossible _not_ to be completely enamored by the allure of floating candles, the quaintness of owl post, or the sophistication of using inkwells and quills.  But much to your dismay, it also quickly became clear how completely impractical all that garbage was turning out to be.  You were quite certain you were developing tension headaches from the eye strain caused by the lack of proper lighting basically everywhere in the castle.  Owl post was only truly convenient if you, you know, _owned an owl_ , and didn’t have to wait for days for a school owl to become available.  And inkwells…

It was a stupid inkwell that started this downward spiral into the wizarding world of contempt.  Your fellow Hufflepuffs had assured you that there were special charms that could prevent inkpots from breaking or leaking, but that didn’t really help you because you didn’t _know_ any of them yet!  It hadn’t even crossed you or your mothers mind to purchase the more expensive self-filling quills or shatter proof inkwells at the start of term.  There was already so much to buy that cutting corners on writing implements seemed perfectly reasonable at the time.  How naive you both had been. 

A mere two weeks into your first year at Hogwarts, and you found yourself staring into a pitch black void at the bottom of your messenger bag, the result of your bargain bin inkwell shattering and bleeding its eldritch contents into every piece of parchment it could gorge itself upon.  The planner where you kept track of all of your assignments? Ruined.  Your Transfiguration and Charms textbooks? Deceased.  Your very first potions essay that was due on Monday?  Utterly obliterated. 

Well, okay.  Maybe it wasn’t as bleak as all that.  A prefect had come to your rescue, and she was at least able to salvage your text books and your bag through some extensive and delicate blotting charms, though everything sported deep grey stains that would never fully fade.  The potions essay _was_ a total loss however, and the older student encouraged you to attempt to re-write it before it was due, if you valued your life.  Which was totally reassuring and definitely not alarming whatsoever.  Though the current Potions Master had only been under Hogwarts employ for two years, he’d already developed a reputation for being an utter horror.  And though you absolutely refused to be intimidated by _anyone_ , you’d convinced yourself that re-writing the essay was purely for the benefit of your grades, and not to save your own hide from your churlish professor. 

There was still the issue of the damn inkwells though, and you decided it was time for some good old fashioned muggle ingenuity.  You had done just fine using real pens your entire life.  Why had you been suckered into doing things the old fashioned way in the first place?  Social pressure?  Your hippie-dippy mother had raised you a rebel (“Stick it to the man, honeybun!”), so that was no issue.  Being judged was the least of your worries.  The list of school supplies you’d received along with your acceptance letter hadn’t said you _couldn’t_ just use muggle implements, so you probably wouldn’t be breaking any rules.  Your only fear was maybe they just wouldn’t… like… _work_ , within the magical walls of this topsy turvey school.  But damn it, you were so over all of this nonsense that you were willing to take the risk.

So, with a begrudgingly borrowed quill, as well as a begrudgingly borrowed owl, you wrote to your mother in a desperate plea for regular muggle school supplies.  Ball point pens, composition note books, a ream of loose leaf paper.  For the hell of it you requested some colored pencils and highlighters as well because what did you even have to lose at this point?  Muggle primary school felt like a breeze compared to the discombobulated aggregation of scrolls, bottles and feathers you had to juggle around now.  Let the Slytherins roll their eyes and preach their supremacy; muggles certainly knew how to make _some_ aspects of life easier. 

And your mother, bless her heart chakra, did not disappoint.  You nearly cried with relief when you saw one of the schools great grey owls swoop into the Great Hall on a Saturday morning, weighed down by a large parcel that was clearly intended for you, if the tie-dyed scarf encasing the bundle was any indication.  The owl has been particularly ornery for its efforts, and you happily shoved the Hufflepuff table’s entire tray of sausages toward the creature, who seemed at least partially placated by the offering. 

Whisking your spoils down to the Hufflepuff common room, you were overjoyed to see that your mother had answered your prayers and then some.  Retractable pens in three different colors, a composition book for each class, paper, pencils (colored and graphite), assorted highlighters, a brand new planner, and a black velvet covered sketch book.  You ran your fingers over this last item fondly.  While everything else had likely come from a discount store, probably on sale after the school year began, the sketch book was clearly a luxury, one you intended to cherish.  You hadn’t thought to bring one through the whirlwind of discovering you were a witch, but now that you were here, your fingers were already itching to commit your newest discoveries to paper.  You wondered if you could charm the illustrations to make them move.

In addition to your new supplies, your mother had also tossed in some sherbet straws, a jar of licorice allsorts, and inexplicably, a bag of crystals.  You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at your mother’s proclivities, especially now that you knew there was such a thing as _real_ magic, and not just the kinda fake sounding wiccy magik that your mother had been dabbling in since _she_ was a teenager.  You vaguely wondered if there was any stock in her beliefs.  Sure, muggles couldn’t perform the kind of magic you were learning now, but did amethyst really offer protection?  Did citrine attract success? Did agate soothe anxiety?  Would the overwhelming scent of patchouli wafting from this little bag of trinkets attract a lover?  You bristle and roll your eyes at the thought, but tie the pouch around the strap of your school bag anyway.  If nothing else, it was a memento from your well-meaning mother, and you would cherish that as well.  You were already looking forward to Christmas (Yule??) just so you could see her again.  Mere words on paper did not do this new life of yours justice. 

And speaking of words on paper, with your new arsenal of muggle writing paraphernalia, you sallied forth to re-write your potions essay.  Maybe it would be even more polished this time around.  This seemed doubtful, since it was practically a throw away essay on safety standards, basic ingredients and core disciplines of the craft.  Every essay was probably going to be a carbon copy.  But still… re-writing the thing was hardly a chore.  Potions was shaping up to be your favorite class thus far because frankly, it was easy. 

You’d been a little baffled to see so many students around you struggling to brew, when the entire process came quite naturally to you.  The cause of the dissonance presented itself when you realized that there was a high probability that none of the other children around you had ever cooked anything in their lives.  Maybe their parents cooked everything for them, or worse, their parents had used magic to cook and completely bypassed any practical kitchen skills.  Your mother had you scrambling eggs by the time she deemed you tall enough to safely work the stove, and your skills progressed from there with abandon.  Though potions making was a more exact science, the basic similarities between brewing, baking and cooking remained the same, and for some reason, you felt like this gave you an edge. 

After a ‘productive’ weekend of re-writing essays and notes, organizing your new school gear and gorging yourself on licorice, you strode into your Monday morning Potions class with an air of confidence that was probably misplaced.  Your second draft essay _had_ turned out particularly good, though that could have just been that sweet, sweet muggle ink talking.  It even _looked_ better on the weathered old parchment than the quill scratching ever had.  No unsightly drips or ink bleeding.  Just smooth lines accentuating your own pretty penmanship.  Though you were a little miffed about having to write on old parchment with your new pens, you didn’t dare risk lined paper in fear of breaking some rule you didn’t know existed. 

After taking your usual place in the third row, you extracted said parchment scroll from your stained bag and winced as it wrenched itself from your fingers to be whisked away across the room, settling with the rest of the homework piled up on Snape’s desk.  The man’s back was turned on the class as he wrote the days assignment the old fashioned way on the black board, and you had to wonder how he did that.  It was the same every time homework was due.  You’d be lucky if your fingers weren’t paper-cut to ribbons by the end of the semester.

Content that you hadn’t been sliced up this time around, you set about your now standard pre-class procedure.  After setting up your work station and collecting the day’s ingredients, you pulled your unruly mass of blonde waves into a high ponytail in a vain attempt at keeping it away from potion fumes.  Calling Snape ‘greasy’ was a common insult whispered between students, but you intimately empathized with the struggle.  The second you bent over a simmering cauldron, your own hair frizzed out of control, and if it was a particularly steamy concoction, even in the chill of the dungeon your waves would be matted to your scalp and the back of your neck with sweat before class was over.  After the first week of this, you told yourself you’d get up early to braid your hair into some complex plait before potions to save yourself from this agony, but those notions always went the way of the lie-in instead.  Even with the ponytail, you’d be a slimy mess yourself before the period was over.  You couldn’t imagine having to deal with this _all day long_.  No wonder the man was an oil-slick.  Unless he greased it himself to keep it from frizzing out…?  Now _there_ was an image.

You bit your bottom lip to hide your grin, trying not to giggle at the thought and break the silence of the classroom as you extracted your notebook and (brand new!) pen from your bag. Flipping to the next blank page after all of your transferred notes, you gave the the black board a cursory glance, before bending over your notebook and poising yourself to copy down the day’s recip- formula.  You pushed your thumb down on the button on the back end of your pen…

And the resounding click echoed through the silent dungeon like a gun shot. 

You’d forgotten… that these stupid things… _made_ _noise_.  Potions class was always hear-a-pin-drop quiet.  And you’d just shattered that.  Like an _idiot_.  Several heads turned your way at once, and you suddenly found yourself very much at the unwanted center of attention.  A droplet of sweat rolled down the back of your neck, and you couldn’t blame it on the heat of bubbling cauldrons just yet.  Your face was probably hot enough to brew the day’s potion over.  The gazes that had rotated your direction held an assortment of expressions, from bewilderment to disapproval to alarm.  But none of them really mattered.  In this solitary moment of utter mortification, the only significant regard came from your professor; glinting black eyes, an artfully arched brow, and mouth curved into an unimpressed sneer.  You refused to be intimidated by _anyone_ , but god, that look could make even the strongest resolve quake.

“Miss Goode,” Snape admonished, causing all the eyes that were on you to snap back to him.  And while you were grateful to no longer be scrutinized by your peers, Snape’s _direct_ attention was on _you_.  And you really wished the castle would do you a solid and just open the floor beneath your stool to swallow you up, providing an escape from that disdain.  But the castle was not so loyal, and the professor continued, his baritone as reproachful as ever.  “See me after class.”

It took several tries for you to get your tongue unstuck from the roof of your mouth before you croaked out a quiet “Yes, sir.”  When the professor found your assent satisfactory and he returned his attention to the board, your body collapsed like a wet noodle against the work desk as you buried your face into your arms.  No public humiliation?  No house points taken?  Not even some cutting quip or poisonous jab?  Just… See him after class?  For _what_?  He totally got off on belittling people in public.  What sort of suffering could he possibly have planned for a private audience?  And what were you going to be punished for anyway?  It couldn’t be just for disrupting class.  That would have been a house point deduction at the very worst, along with a handy insult.  Were you actually breaking school rules with your muggle supplies?  Were they _contraband_?  Oh god why didn’t you just _ask_ someone first?

You wearily raised your head as the lecture began, and finally got about to actually using the blasted pen that had gotten you into this mess to take notes.  At least it hadn’t been taken away… yet.  You would enjoy it while you still could.  Class continued as normal, and you chopped and stirred and simmered as required, but you felt as though you were on auto-pilot; not absorbing any information, just going through the motions and applying the bare minimum in terms of effort. 

You weren’t _scared_.  You were just… anxious.  What’s the worst that could happen?  You’d have everything confiscated and you’d be back to square one with a stupid bird feather and a few less house points for Hufflepuff.  It was whatever else Snape was going to _say_ that had your body buzzing with apprehension.  You’d only been at Hogwarts less than a month, but even you were aware that most Slytherins thought they were superior, some of them by virtue of their blood alone.  Was the grand leader of them all planning to mock you for your choice of muggle convenience?  And, more pressingly, would you be able to hold your tongue if he did?  ‘Do no harm, but take no shit’ was the most important virtue instilled upon you by your mother, but it usually just got you into trouble.

You made it through the rest of the class period without incident.  After bottling the cure for boils you’d brewed (you shuddered when you realized exactly what it was you were brewing, mostly apprehensive about how its effectiveness would be tested next class and wishing you’d perhaps put in a little extra effort), you sluggishly tidied up your work station and tried to ignore the sympathetic looks you were getting from your fellow classmates.  While your nerves felt steadier, you were still on edge, your mind churning with potential excuses and smart comebacks that you’d never remember to use once you were actually face to face with the issue.  When the castle bells chimed that class was over, you carefully returned your text and note books to your bag, and remained firmly in your seat while the rest of the class filed out.

And then the classroom was empty and still, but for the ever present trickle of water from the gargoyle font in the corner.  It was almost… peaceful?  The calm before the storm? You sighed through your nose and allowed the perceived tranquility to bolster your resolve.  You would not be shaken.  Or stirred.  You snorted at your own private little joke before sliding off of your stool and making your way back towards the professor’s office. 

Which… is where you _assumed_ Snape was.  You’d had your head down for so long you hadn’t actually seen where he’d disappeared to.  As you lightly rapped your knuckles against the ajar door, it swung open slowly, and you slipped through the narrow opening into what was clearly the most interesting room you’d seen in the castle thus far.  It was probably a bad move to completely ignore the professor who sat bent over his desk, but as it seemed he was completely ignoring _you_ , you took the opportunity to gaze at the ghastly assortment of creatures and plant life suspended in glass around the perimeter of the room.  It was… horrifying.  But undeniably fascinating.  Like seeing preserved animals at a natural history museum, except that you had no idea what any of these things _were_.  You’d just taken a step towards the nearest shelf in an attempt to read one of the hand written labels when-

“Miss Goode.  How kind of you to finally join me.”

Oh, right.  You suppressed a shiver against the splash of ice water those words had cast down your spine, and you briefly closed your eyes to regather your wits.  Okay, you deserved that one for getting distracted from the problem at hand, but how could you be blamed?  There were slimy things!  In jars!  This was a kid-in-a-candy-shop moment for you!  Swallowing thickly, you turned on your heel to face the professor, a contrite smile tugging at your lips. 

“My apologies, Professor,” you murmured, taking the few steps to stand before Snape’s desk, hands clutching the strap of your bag as your fingers slid anxiously over the silky pouch of crystals tied around it.  Summoning the boldness that your mother had nurtured, you finally lifted your eyes to meet his, and you were struck by the fact you’d never seen him this close before.  And God, he was the oldest looking 23 year old you’d ever seen in your life.  Maybe that was an odd first thought.  You were only aware of his age because it was apparently notable that he was one of the youngest professorial appointees in the school’s history.  But looking at him now, you never would have guessed him to even be in his 20’s, much less _early_ 20’s.  He had a face made for currency, bold features that would appear almost noble, were they not engraved in a perpetual facade of mild annoyance and seething disgust.  But you were also struck by the dark smudges under his eyes, the lines around his mouth and forehead, the weariness in his gaze.  This was the face of a much older man, and that made you feel… some sort of way.  You didn’t have time to analyze the sensation before your reprimand began. 

“Miss Goode,” Snape repeated your name, leaning his elbows forward on his desk as he tented his fingers, looking across at you with a faint roll of his eyes, presumably at your apparent air-headedness.  This was it though.  He had your attention.  “Concerning what happened at the start of class today.  You’re a half-blood witch, are you not?  What happened, exactly, for you to feel the need to reject the long-standing wizarding custom of quills and ink?” 

Your mouth fell open slightly, shocked that you’d apparently nailed exactly what you would be ridiculed for, but also taken aback by the delivery.  You thought you ought to be offended at the implications of your blood status, but you quickly snapped your mouth shut with an irritated huff.  Your brows drew together as you felt your hackles rise, and you had a bad feeling about what might come out of your mouth.

“If you _must_ know, Professor,” you dictated, wishing you could tone down your ire, but knowing you wouldn’t.  “I don’t have any idea who my father might have been, and my mother was the muggle half of that equation.  I wasn’t raised with any such customs.” 

Snape at least had the decency to look slightly uncomfortable, his hands unfolding from their tent to rest directly on the desk, his eyebrow falling to a more conventional level as he leaned back in his chair.  In your mind, you let out a triumphant whoop and gave yourself a gold star for managing to put a chip in that stone cold mask.  But you also took pity.  It wasn’t like he could have known, and you appreciated the penitent look he was giving you.  At least you took it for penitence.  If nothing else, you were even now; he called you out for dawdling, and you merely returned the favor.

“As for your question though, I…”  You faltered, heat suffusing your face as you realized you had to admit that you _were_ sort of an air-head.  You sighed and looked away from him, chewing the inside of your cheek as you mumbled.  “An ink bottle shattered in my bag a few days ago.  It ruined a bunch of my text books and I even had to re-write the essay that was due this morning… So I had my mother send me some stuff…” you trailed off.  Jeeze.  It sounded so childish now that you were saying it out loud.  But you still stood by your decision.  You were decidedly over it as you turned your eyes back to his.  “Just because something is traditional doesn’t mean it’s practical.” 

That earned you a new expression.  A smirk!  And not even the kind of ‘gotcha’ smirk you were used to seeing Snape don in the classroom as he caught some unwitting student in a tangle of words.  He almost looked impressed with you, which was… concerning.  The suspicion must have been evident on your face as he canted his head, lacing his fingers together as he leaned toward you once more. 

“I couldn’t agree more,” Snape concurred, and he was clearly trying to suppress his grin from broadening as you blinked rapidly in confusion.  You ceased fidgeting with the pouch of crystals dangling from your bag, your hands instead falling dumbly to your sides as you openly gawked.  He… what?  _What??_   You had run through so many possible scenarios and outcomes of this particular meeting, and none of them had gone in this direction.  It left you feeling unstable and stupid, but thankfully he didn’t leave you floundering for long (though it was clear to you that he enjoyed watching you squirm).  Getting a hold of his features, he leveled you with another discerning look, eyebrow popping right back up to its sardonic heights.  “Do you have any in red?”

Your eyes widened slightly, though you managed not to let your mouth fall open like a dying fish this time.  You almost couldn’t comprehend what he was saying, what he was _asking_ , because the entire situation felt surreal.  Or like a set-up.  You were just waiting for the punchline.  Were you really not in trouble?  Had he truly accosted you simply to get in on some of that (sweet, sweet) muggle utility?  If writing essays with a quill was a chore, you couldn’t imagine grading them.  _Hundreds_ of them.  But, once again, you didn’t have time to analyze.  He was waiting for your reply, and if his eyebrow rose any higher it would fly off of his face.  You had to bite the inside of your cheek once again to keep yourself from giggling at your own imagery.  You’d certainly concocted a few good doodle ideas for your new sketch book.

Looking down at your school bag, you lifted its flap to begin the search for your stash of red pens, when a thought occurred to you.  A devious little thought that… if you weren’t going to lose house points for your disruption earlier, you’d probably lose them now.  But it was your only chance, an opportunity you’d be fool to let go.  And the worst that could happen was that he’d say ‘no’.  You ran your thumb over the corner of a bundle of loose leaf in your bag, and you didn’t dare look him in the eye as you asked, “May I write my essays on lined paper?”

Snape’s other eyebrow shot up to meet the first, a look of genuine surprise flickering across his face before he once again regained control of his features.  Whether it was your audacity or your foolishness that had caused such a reaction, you thought you might give yourself another gold star anyway; collecting new Snape Facial Expressions was becoming a rather fun game.  Your counter-offer didn’t leave him as speechless as his initial offer had made you, but it did take him a few moments before asking for clarification, “Medium ruled?”

What you hoped was a triumphant smirk was actually more of an elated beam.  Your daring had paid off, and you quickly whipped out a sheet from the sheaf in your bag, holding it across the desk for him to inspect.  You hoped that brow quirk was in amusement instead of annoyance, but Snape snatched the paper from you with a quick flick of his fingers before setting it down on his desk and producing a battered wooden ruler from a drawer to his left.  He wasn’t fooling around.  He checked the length of the page, even went so far as to measure the margins, and you wondered if he was putting on a show to make you squirm again.  Because you were.  Your smile had slipped down as you observed his scrutiny, fretting that your daring had, in fact, _not_ paid off in the slightest and he was about to make a fool of you as you’d originally feared.  But you needn’t have worried as he tapped the page with his fingers, giving a slight nod of approval.  “As long as you’ve got the inches, you could write on papyrus for all I care.”

Your delighted smile returned, and you made no effort to hide it this time as you returned your attention to your bag, digging through its contents before producing two red filled retractable pens.  You held them out with the deference one might show a bouquet of flowers, and suppressed a giggle as Snape rolled his eyes before snatching them from your hand.  The gesture dampened your glee a little, but you still allowed yourself to smile at your own well played transaction.  You watched as he gave the pen a satisfying click with his thumb, before he scribbled the nib in tight little loops against the corner of the paper to get the ink flowing. 

“What is your next class?” he enquired, already scrawling out a note on the sheet of lined paper you had provided, though you had a difficult time making out his spindly handwriting, especially upside down.

“Transfiguration,” you answered, tilting your head slightly as you watched the red lines form an address to Minerva McGonagall.   

“She ought to appreciate the color palette,” Snape murmured, and you suppressed yet another giggle.  Was that a _joke_?  Well okay no it was clearly more of a jab at the Gryffindor head if the return of his scowl was any indication.  But still!  It was funny.  Especially coming from him.  He finally straightened up, handing the sheet of paper back to you with a flourish, and you realized it was a pass excusing you for being late to Transfiguration.  You took it from him gratefully, folding it in half to slip into the pocket of your robe. 

Snape was already pulling essays from the pile of scrolls to begin grading with his (brand new!) red pen, and you fidgeted awkwardly for a few moments, wondering if he would dismiss you, or if you should just take the hint and leave on your own.  Choosing the latter option, you gave his office one more wistful look, before turning to make your way out.

“Miss Goode?” he called, causing your footsteps to stutter just as you’d reached the door.  You looked over your shoulder at him, his head still bowed over his work. 

“Sir?” you asked quietly, feeling that restless buzz creep over your skin once again.  What did he want now?

There was a pause, his attention still trained away from you, before he spoke.  “That was a very Slytherin move you pulled just now,” he commented, finally lifting his eyes to look you over appraisingly.  “Five points to Hufflepuff.  But don’t press your luck like that again.”

Your eyes widened, but you nodded your assent quickly, squeaking “yes sir” before you fled from the office.  You only made it half way across the classroom before you burst into nervous giggles, the sound bubbling out of you as the tension receded from your body.  What the bloody hell just happened?  It was so glorious and nerve-wracking that you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, though your addled brain clearly thought that laughter was the answer.  Your mind was racing, swirling with so much new information to examine about your boorish professor.  You were just starting to compile a list of questions in your mind, when Snape’s voice rang out through the dungeon and scared you out of your skin.

“On your way, Miss Goode!”

You hadn’t shut the office door behind you, you realized, and you yelped out another startled “Yes sir!” as you dashed for the classroom door.  If he didn’t already think you were batty, he certainly would now.  Your nervous laughter continued as you walked through the silent, empty dungeon corridors, rubbing your hand over your face as you tried to get a grip on yourself.  What an absolute enigma of a man.

And yet, you felt an odd sort of kinship with him now.  At the very least, you’d managed to endear yourself to him through a mutual disdain for some of the more unreasonable practices of the wizarding world.  And you couldn’t help but wonder where that came from.  He wasn’t utterly oblivious to muggle technology, like most pure-blooded wizards seemed to be.  He knew what a pen was, how it worked.  He knew what medium ruled paper was, had measured it himself.  Was he like you?  Raised more muggle than magic?  That seemed unlikely for the head of Slytherin’s house, but you were coming to understand that such bias was… well.  It was just as bad as the bias you were criticizing Slytherin’s for having in the first place. 

You tapped your fingers against your brow, as if attempting to nail that epiphany down.  It wouldn’t do to make assumptions about anyone here, based on house or blood or any other label.  You’d been wrong to pigeonhole Professor Snape as some jerk based on the derision of other students.  Hell, he’d even given you a compliment, if being compared to a Slytherin could be taken as such, which coming from him, certainly was.  You felt like you were on his good side now, and you were determined to stay there if you could help it.  You already had an edge in potions.  Now it was merely a matter of keeping it sharp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always appreciated, and questions are always welcome! Thank you for reading!


	2. Good Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2nd year. Your attempt to make a kind gesture towards Professor Snape ends about as well as you think it would.

The first day of your second year at Hogwarts found you standing in the damp dungeons first thing in the morning, leaning against the wall next to the Potions classroom door, because you’re an over-eager ninny with nothing better to do, apparently.  You ought to be upstairs in the Great Hall right now, enjoying a leisurely breakfast as you compared schedules with your friends and shared stories of your summer vacations.  Instead, you’d grabbed a slice of toast and ate it on your way down here, hoping to head off Professor Snape before first period, only to find the Potions classroom locked. 

So you thought it might be prudent to wait for him, taking the time to study your new class schedule (you didn’t even _have_ potions today) and finish your toast… But the man was still nowhere in sight.  As the minutes ticked by, you found yourself in a horrible sort of limbo; if you left now, the whole endeavor would have been a waste of time, but you had already wasted _so_ much time that waiting any longer seemed futile at best.  Waiting for Snape hadn’t turned out to be so prudent after all.  But you’d _really_ been hoping to catch him before classes began…

Maybe this whole thing was a stupid idea.  Snape had warned you last year not to press your luck again, and you’d done well to heed this advice.  You did the work, you studied hard, and through your own tenacity, had succeeded in receiving some of the highest marks in Potions for your year.  You didn’t believe that Snape favored you in any way, not like he did the Slytherins at least, but you had laid the groundwork for a sort of mutual respect that had lasted through the term, and perhaps _that_ had worked in your favor.  You found that if you didn’t give him cause to pick on you, he wouldn’t.  He hadn’t given you any trouble at all, really, because you did as you were told, followed directions, and nailed every single potion you’d brewed in his classroom.  And though he graded your work just as harshly as everyone else’s, the fact of the matter was that you hadn’t actually seen too many of those red pen marks on your papers last year.

But you _had_ noticed that he’d switched back to quills and ink sometime in the spring.  Of course, your natural reaction upon viewing this had been the brilliant plan to bring him more pens in the fall.  It just seemed the proper thing to do.  And when summer rolled around, you’d gone and done exactly that, though it had come at a steep and embarrassing price.  While shopping for school supplies the week before your return, your mother had enquired as to why you felt you needed so many red pens.  You had sheepishly admitted that they weren’t for you, but for one of your professors, and this had been a mistake.  Your mother had teasingly asked (SANG) if you were ‘Hot for Teacher’ and you silently cursed Van Halen while hiding your boiling face in your hands in the middle of the supply store.  When you returned home, you wondered if you could _actually_ curse Van Halen, as your mother proceeded to play the B side of ‘1984’ on loop for the remainder of the day.

You most certainly were _not_ hot for teacher.  But you were admittedly curious about Snape, and you weren’t the only one.  There were so many wild rumors and accusations swirling about the man, and while some of them were absolutely absurd (Was he a vampire? Half demetor?), you also noticed that there wasn’t much of an attempt to quell any of them either.  It was as if he wanted these stories to circulate, to keep up his image as The Demon of the Dungeons. 

You’d noticed last night at the feast that he’d undergone a wardrobe change as well.  Last year he’d worn rather ill-fitting robes, usually with dark slacks and plain dress shirts.  _This_ year… While the color palette of black on black had remained the same, you’d never seen so many buttons on a frock coat, and had certainly never seen _every single one of them_ done up like that.  It must be absolutely suffocating, the only exposed skin being his face and his fingers, the hem of his sleeves ending just above the knuckles.  It was an intimidating look, for certain.  But it just made you wonder what he was hiding.

Your mother often described you as precocious; too perceptive for your own good.  She would also insist that she didn’t know where you got it from, but you reckoned it had something to do with the fact that she spoke to you like you were an adult from the day you were born (with the exception of saccharine pastry based nicknames, of course).  She tread a gossamer line between cool hippie mom and actual responsible adult, but the combination was a potent one.  She raised you without pretense, never lying when you asked your questions, never sugarcoating the truth.  The only thing she sugarcoated were cookies, and for that you were grateful.  Your perception of the world was imbued with a stubborn desire for the truth, as well as an expectation to receive nothing but, and there was nothing you hated more than when you realized an adult was deceiving you. 

Not that you thought Snape was deceiving you, specifically.  But it seemed that he had some sort of agenda that included getting students (and everyone else probably) to actively hate him.  And it drove.  You.  Bananas.  That’s not how teachers were supposed to be!  You’d been friendly with nearly every primary school teacher you’d ever had, as well as most of your current teachers here at Hogwarts.  Even if you disliked a teacher, it was probably because you disliked their _subject_ , or their way of teaching.  But you loved potions, and Snape was actually a fine teacher if you paid careful attention. 

It was everything _else_ he did, the stalking about, the intimidation, the theatrics, which obviously made it difficult for some students to concentrate, that absolutely baffled you.  It was as if he didn’t even want to _be_ a teacher.  And maybe he didn’t.  Which again begged the question; _what was he hiding?_ Or perhaps… rather… what was he hiding _from_? The clothes, the rumors, the insults.  You recognized them all as defense mechanisms, but why they were in place, you didn’t know. 

Your mind often wandered back to that fateful meeting in your first year, where you felt as though you got a glimpse of the person Snape was under all of those barriers.  You had no desire to make assumptions, but your questions about him still remained.  Was he like you?  A half-blood or something close?  Did he also see the dichotomy between the wizarding and muggle worlds, and find it rather inane that Muggle technology continued to advance while magic folk remained in the dark ages?  Why had he become a teacher at such a young age if he appeared to loathe the position?  And why did he look so old, despite being so young?  You acknowledged you would probably never receive the answers to these questions, it wasn’t any of your business to begin with, but they still buzzed in your brain none-the-less.  Enigmatic didn’t feel strong enough a word.

You were startled from your musings when you heard quick, sharp footsteps echoing against the stone walls of the dungeon.  God, _finally_.  You had no idea what time it was, but you hoped that the warning bell for first period wasn’t about to go off.  You straightened up, fidgeting with the pouch of crystals that still hung from the strap of your bag, as you watched Professor Snape practically billow around the corner.  Oh yes, the new outfit certainly had a dramatic effect.  You imagined he’d be able to clear a path through any crowded corridor now, not that his glare alone wasn’t able to do that before.  His steps stuttered a moment upon seeing you there, the line creasing his brow hardening ever so slightly as he slowed his gait, advancing towards you unhurriedly.

“Miss Goode,” Snape greeted stiltedly, stopping in front of the classroom door before crossing his arms over his chest, his robes draping around him like great bat wings.  Yes, yes; very Lugosi.  Maybe he’d had some cinematic inspiration.  “I don’t have any Hufflepuff classes today.  Are you lost?”

Snape certainly didn’t waste any time, unlike yourself.  You wondered, again, if this had been a stupid idea.  It seemed he was already exasperated by your presence, and you hadn’t even opened your mouth yet.  Smiling ruefully, you shook your head in response to his inquiry.  “No, sir.  Not lost.  I wanted to see you before classes began.  Is there time?”

Snape regarded you with a look of confusion, his brows pressing further together as he tilted his head with a tick of annoyance.  He pursed his lips a moment before questioning, “Time for _what_ , exactly?”  Uncrossing his arms, he extracted his wand from his robes before muttering a spell to unlock the classroom door and stepping inside, leaving you standing in the corridor like a fool. 

Taking a deep breath, you let it out slowly through your nose before you turned and followed Snape inside, staying a few paces behind so as not to be accosted by the billowing fabric that trailed him.  You could just imagine stepping on the back of his robes and sending you both careening down the stone stairs into the classroom.  When he reached the end of said stairs and looked back over his shoulder at you, you got the feeling that he hadn’t actually expected you to follow him.  And now you wondered if you should have.  But steeling your nerves, you stopped at the bottom of the steps behind him and smiled once again, hoping it didn’t look as forced as it felt.

“I’ve brought you a gift,” you stated easily enough, but the ferocity with which Snape rounded on you then was so startling that you actually did stumble on the steps.  Your heels knocked against the bottom stair, and with nothing to grab on to, you fell back hard onto your arse against the top step of the small flight.  The unforgiving stone sent a bolt of hot agony through your tailbone and up your spine, and you grimaced, squeezing your eyes shut tightly as blood roared in your ears.  You felt your face burn red hot with both shame and suppressed tears, as any abrupt shock of pain always triggered that sort of childish reaction in you.  You wanted to cover your face with your hands, but you kept them fisted tightly around the strap of your bag, willing yourself to keep it together.  You did _not_ want to cry in front of Snape.

There was a lull of silence that felt like it lasted an age, and even though your pain was already subsiding, the longer the silence stretched, the closer you felt to bursting into tears.  You were finally broken out of your miserable daze by the surprisingly gentle touch of a hand against your elbow.  You sucked in a sharp gasp as you finally opened your eyes, and it stuttered out slowly as you felt hot tears slip down your cheeks.  You were staring down at Snape’s shiny black shoes, and couldn’t bring yourself to look up at him as he tugged on your arm. 

“Get up,” he commanded, though his voice had taken on a considerably milder tone.  “Come on.  You’re alright.”  His gruff coaxing was actually soothing your nerves as opposed to fraying them, like maybe he wasn’t totally infuriated with you, and you were finally able to comply, allowing him to pull you up with a little assistance on your part.  You quickly swiped the sleeve of your robe across your eyes, wiping away any stray tears before hesitantly meeting his gaze.  He looked… penitent again.  Not openly, mind; his brows were still pressed together in a stern line, and his lips were still pulled down into a scowl, but none of it met his dark eyes, which were softer than you’d ever seen them.  It was a stark contrast to the outraged glower that had sent you falling back onto your arse.

Releasing your elbow, Snape took a step back, crossing his arms over his chest once more as he considered you, and he did you both a favor by not mentioning what had just occurred.  It was certainly a perfect opportunity to taunt you, but perhaps because it had been his fault, he chose to disregard it.  Instead, he sighed, exasperation once again permeating his tone, but you felt there was a hint of indulgence in it as well, as if he were playing along for your benefit as an act of contrition.  “A gift, you say?” he asked, his signature brow arch creeping up his forehead.  “Brought a shiny red apple for teacher on the first day of school, have you?”

At this, you finally allowed yourself to smile again.  It was small, and rather vexed on your own part as well, but he was playing nice, and so you’d accept the token of repentance.  You knew a ‘sorry’ when you saw one.  “It’s not an apple,” you clarified as you flipped open the flap of your bag.  “But they _are_ red.”  You produced a small bundle, four red pens held together by a length of black velvet ribbon tied in a prim little bow.  They were nicer than the ones from last year, as those had been intended for your own personal use.  These were of a much higher quality, and you’d paid for them with your own pocket money when your mother had continued to tease you about it.  You presented them to him, your eyes shifting demurely away from his as you explained, “I noticed you ran out last year, so I just thought…”

He wasn’t taking them.  Your fingers trembled slightly as your smile faded away.  Yeah.  This had been a stupid idea.  Your own brows pressed together in doubt as you finally chanced a glace back to him, and only when you’d made eye contact did he finally speak.  “Miss Goode, you realize you’re under no obligation to supply me with these, correct?”

Your mouth dropped open, your aggravation growing by the minute.  “Of course.  That’s not why I-”

“Are you trying to bribe me?” he interrupted, any sympathy for you vanishing from his voice, replaced instead with genuine condemnation.  “Curry my favor to keep you at the top of your class?  It wouldn’t be the first time a student has tried it.”

“No!” you retaliated, fingers clutching into a fist around your proffered gift as you pulled them close to your chest.  You were horrified and enraged that he was actually accusing you of such a thing.  You were a Hufflepuff for god’s sake!  As if you had a single conniving bone in your body.  You were so hurt by his allegation that you couldn’t stop yourself from running off at the mouth.  “I would never do such a thing!  And I have no need to!  I’m at the top of my class because I-!”  You realized you were shouting, and there were angry tears stinging behind your eyes again.  You shut them tightly and lowered your voice.  “Because I’m _actually_ good at it.  I don’t need _your_ favor for that.” 

There was a beat of silence, the only sound being the heave of your labored breaths as you tried to calm yourself down.  Opening your eyes again, you were once more staring down at his shoes, and this time you refused to meet his eye.  You’d stand there all day if you needed to.  But it didn’t take that long.  Voice still laced with suspicion, he began to question, “Then why would you-”

“Because!” you cut him off, so frustrated that you found your voice hiking up again.  “Contrary to your apparent beliefs, I don’t actually need an ulterior motive to try and be nice to you!”  You tossed the pens onto the nearest work desk and turned on your heel, not even sparing him another glance as you stormed out of the classroom, your own robes billowing impressively in the process. 

It wasn’t until there were two floors between yourself and the potions classroom that you realized how absolutely reckless you’d just been.  Could a house have points taken away if they hadn’t received any yet?  It was only the start of term after all.  Maybe Snape would just put Hufflepuff in the hole and you’d start the year out in the negatives.  Were you going to get detention?  What kind of punishment was there for yelling at a teacher?

You were unable to concentrate through the entirety of your History of Magic class (not unusual).  You kept running the events of the morning over in your head, and all that you could think about was the fact that you’d probably just destroyed that foundation of respect you’d worked to build last year.  You anticipated hell when you had your first potions class later in the week, and you feared for your grades.  You’d convinced yourself that Snape was indeed a perfectly capable teacher, and you weren’t worried about your ability to brew.  Any practical work would still be a breeze.  But you wouldn’t put it past him to nitpick every assignment, essay and test you submitted just so he could whittle your scores down to the lowest possible grade.  And you felt he’d start picking on you again, treating you like an idiot just like he treated everyone else, despite your talent. 

But what pissed you off even more was the fact that _you felt bad_.  You thought your gesture had been kind.  You thought that the respect you’d developed had run both ways.  And damn it, you wanted him to like you!  Because despite his cruelty, you thought you liked him too.  He was sarcastic and nasty, but also clever and brilliant, and it was all just so morbidly endearing.  You wanted to know what he kept hidden behind all of his masks and armor.  You wanted him to think you were worthy of something, that you possessed the predisposition, that you appreciated the art and the science of Potions.  You didn’t think there was anything wrong with wanting to be friends with a teacher.  You’d done the same thing in primary school.  You even felt like you were already friends with Sprout and Hagrid.  Why should Snape be _any_ different?

Because, apparently, he just _was_.  A goddamn enigma.  He was so intriguing and so infuriating that you didn’t know which way was up with him.  And the paradox that was Snape continued to puzzle you through the rest of the day, culminating at lunch time when you settled into the Great Hall with your friends, who had noticed your distracted mood, but didn’t press you on it.  The first thing you noticed were the hourglasses which held the house points, and the fact that Hufflepuff had just as many as any of the other houses.  A little more than Gryffindor, but a little less than Slytherin, with Ravenclaw in the lead, for now.  So… he _couldn’t_ deduct negative points?  Because you had a hard time believing that he hadn’t tried.  Maybe he was waiting for Hufflepuff to earn a sufficient amount before taking them away. 

The second thing you noticed, was that Snape was up at the teachers table, and he was ignoring you.  Not unusual, but still troubling.  He wasn’t deducting house points, he wasn’t shooting you dirty looks, and he wasn’t marching over to give you detention for the rest of your life.  You knew there would be consequences for your actions on this day.  So where were they?

Your answer arrived by owl post.  As the afternoon owls swept in, a tiny, dark owl you didn’t recognize plopped a small scroll on top of your uneaten bowl of fruit.  You snatched it up quickly so it wouldn’t get wet, and narrowed your eyes at the owl as it took off.  You were already in a bad temper.  You didn’t need bloody owls ruining your mail.  Sighing, you looked down at the scroll, and your mouth went dry as you saw it was tied with a frightfully familiar black velvet ribbon.  Your gaze shot back to the teachers table, but Snape was nowhere to be seen.  He must have left.  With trembling fingers, you pulled on the ribbon and let it flutter to your lap, before slipping the scroll under the table and unraveling it out of view. 

Written in spidery cursive with smooth red ink, were the words ‘Thank you for the gift.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always appreciated, and questions are always welcome! Thank you for reading!


	3. Hypnosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3rd year. You serve a well deserved detention with Snape, and you learn a little more about the politics of Hogwarts Houses.

Joshua DeJarnette had insulted your mother.

You, in turn, had rearranged his smug Slytherin face.

With your fists.

It perhaps was not your finest moment.  ‘Do no harm’ often took a back seat to ‘take no shit’, especially when your mothers reputation was involved.  Not that you were prone to fist fights, but you had been in enough of them in primary school to know what you were doing.  You weren’t a bully.  No, more often you were the one _being_ bullied, and you’d learned to defend yourself any way you could.

Your mother had you out of wedlock when she was 23.  In fact, she couldn’t even put a name or a face to the man who had sired you, who’d apparently been a wizard.  She believed you’d been conceived in the back of a split window bus at a music festival in 1971, but even of that she couldn’t be certain.  It never bothered you as a child that you didn’t have a father, or that your mother didn’t have much money, or that strange things seemed to happen around you when you were feeling sad or scared.  But it sure seemed to bother everyone else, and these facts had been their ammunition.

You’d hoped to leave all of that stigma behind when you started attending Hogwarts.  You could carve out a new identity for yourself.  No one had to know that you were poor, or that you didn’t have a dad.  But it somehow still managed to become a hot topic in your third year anyway.  Anything meant to stay secret at Hogwarts became public knowledge in no time it seemed, especially when there were paintings and ghosts that could gossip.  Even so, you thought that it wouldn’t be a big deal; it wasn’t as if you were the only half-blood in the school.  And yet, you stood out.  Because while the other half-bloods had been raised with at least some knowledge of the wizarding world, you had not.  You were about as well informed as any muggle-born, and you flaunted your ignorance with your use of muggle school supplies, your obsession with muggle music, and your affinity for muggle fashion.  And apparently, to those whom actually cared about such trivial things as blood status, this was a grievous offense.

And thus began the spread of poison.  The half-blood witch with only one parent, and it was the muggle one!  Father was a wizard and she never even knew!  What a travesty.  How unfortunate that she had grown up without any magical traditions.  Poor, poor thing.  How had she ever gotten by without the conveniences and solutions that magic offered?  Must have been a hard life!  And her mother!  Never even got to know the bloke well enough to know he was magic?  What a slu-

Your knuckles still throbbed from where they’d collided with DeJarnette’s face.  You’d managed to tackle him to the ground and land three good hits on the boy’s cheek, jaw and brow before you’d been pulled off of him by Professor McGonagall by the scruff of your robes, the sound of her shouts drowned out by the din of cheering and hissing from the other students around you in the entrance hall.  You’d been immensely pleased with yourself, and goddamn it, you still were.  He’d never even had the chance to reach for his wand, and probably never imagined you’d just go for it with your bare hands.  You were tempted to ask during your reprimand if there had ever been a case of a Hufflepuff punching out a Slytherin before this, but you thought maybe you weren’t supposed to be quite so openly proud of yourself.  All of the house point deductions and detentions in the world would never actually make you feel sorry for what you’d done.  The only thing you regretted was the dull ache in your hand, and not getting a fourth hit in on his nose.

And maybe you kind of regretted not wearing a sweater for your nighttime detention in the dungeons, but you’d remember to bring one tomorrow.

Of course, you’d _both_ gotten into massive trouble.  There had been enough witnesses to report that you were severely provoked, and the evidence of your own retaliation was all over DeJarnette’s face in deep, plum colored splotches.  You’d both lost a hefty amount of house points, and you’d both been sentenced to a week’s worth of detentions with the opposing houses Head.  You imagined DeJarnette was in the greenhouses with Professor Sprout at the moment, and you dearly hoped the bastard was elbow deep in dragon shit compost right about now.

You, on the other hand, found yourself in the frigid dungeons, but honestly, the circumstances were quite favorable to you.  You were certain not to learn a single moral lesson from this entire ordeal; you’d gotten to punch a total prat in the face, and you were then summarily rewarded with the opportunity to snoop around Snape’s collection of ingredients and potions as your punishment.  It was as though Christmas had come early for Gwendolyn Goode.

Your job was simple; dust, re-label and sort the ingredients and potions in Snape’s office.  It was a massive endeavor that would likely take the full week, and frankly, you were ecstatic for the opportunity.  Even the nature of this punishment was exhilarating.  On the outside, it was tedious drudge work, which involved becoming very dusty, getting up close and personal with dead, slimy things in jars, as well as risking possible exposure to some highly dangerous potions and poisons (it wasn’t a Hogwarts detention if it wasn’t potentially life threatening!). 

However, to you, it spoke of a whole new level of respect reached between yourself and the Potions Master.  He _trusted_ you, with his _private stores_.  He thought you capable enough to handle these rare and expensive ingredients without damaging them, as well as knowledgeable enough to identify their contents and affix them with fresh labels.  The fact that these new labels would be in your own handwriting had its own sort of thrill, like you were leaving your mark on something important.  He could have had you scrub cauldrons or separate spider parts or something equally gross.  Instead, he’d given you a project he likely wanted to do himself, but didn’t have the time for.  You knew Snape wouldn’t have given this sort of detention to just any dunderhead.  He’d given it to _you_.

Your rapport with Professor Snape had improved considerably since last term.  Though your second year had gotten off to a bit of a rocky start, your fears of his retribution after the incident with your ‘gift’ had been unfounded.  You stayed in your lane, and he stayed in his.  Your dedication to the craft had paid off, and not only did you receive high marks, you had ended up at _the_ top of your year.  You were told that it had been the first time in 14 years that _anyone_ outside of Slytherin had headed the class in Potions.  You weren’t breaking records yet (you could only guess who held _those_ ) but you thought perhaps you were well on your way to.  You hadn’t just been posturing when you’d shouted in Snape’s face that you were actually good; you’d proved it to him.  And, at the start of your third year, he had accepted your gift of another supply of red pens with only a curt nod and a brusque expression of gratitude.

Neither of you had said much since you’d arrived in the dungeons after dinner to receive your punishment.  Snape had explained what you were to do, showed you the new labels you were to use, taught you a quick sticking and unsticking charm for said labels (he didn’t have the patience to make you pick them off or glue them on manually), and had left you to it while he sat at his desk, grading papers.  The silence was only punctuated by the scribble of pen on parchment, the clink of jars and glasses, and the soft whisper of your spell work. 

Presently, you were sitting cross-legged on the floor behind Snape’s desk, an incredibly large jar containing what looked to be an entire preserved Glower Eel resting in your lap.  Its ropey black body was curled in a spiral that pressed against the glass of the jar, while its head bobbed lifelessly towards the top, a mouth full of needle like teeth gaping open at you.  What impressed you most was that it was still _glowing_ , the spots and ridges that speckled the length of its sinewy form shone with faint, earie yellow light, despite how very dead the animal clearly was.  You’d already written and affixed the label to the glass, but you were taking your time admiring the morbid beauty of this… corpse.  What was it even used for?  Why did Snape keep it?  It looked more like a taxidermy display than a useable ingredient for anything.  You knew the properties of certain parts of this fish, most of which were rare ingredients for complicated potions.  But what was the purpose of keeping the whole thing?

“I don’t hear you working,” came a smooth drawl from just behind you, and you gasped as you clutched the giant jar to your body in fright.  Jesus!  Did he _want_ you to drop it?  Was he just waiting for the opportunity to get you to shatter something?  Now _that_ would be the real drudge work; cleaning up shards of glass and priceless Glower Eel entrails off of a dungeon floor. 

“Sorry, sir,” you muttered, shifting on to your knees (your arse had gone numb from the frozen dungeon floor) and sliding the jar onto the bottom shelf.  It seemed a shame to keep it down there.  It should be proudly displayed on the mantelpiece or something.  It was too pretty to keep all the way down here… But that’s where the G’s were located, along with Gillyweed, Ghost Slugs and Graphorn horn, just to name a few.

“I appreciate that you’re taking your time with this.”  You heard the creak of leather and wood behind you, and you glanced over your shoulder to see Snape leaning back in his chair, twisted around so he could observe you, and of course, hit you with yet another shrewd look and arched brow.  “However, I’m getting the distinct impression that you’re enjoying yourself entirely too much.”

You could feel the flush spreading over your cheeks at that.  Caught red handed.  Damn it!  You should have made more of an effort to pretend that this totally sucked or something.  Now maybe you _would_ end up scrubbing cauldrons…  Instead of admitting that, yes, you actually _were_ enjoying yourself, you returned your attention to the Glower Eel.  Placing your hand on the jar, you ran your fingertips along the curve of its twisted body before asking, “Why do you keep the whole thing?”

There was a moment’s pause, followed by a quiet “Pardon?”

You looked over your shoulder to face him again, and you found him regarding you with a slightly less intimidating look.  Keen as always, but at least now he didn’t look irritated with you.  “The Glower Eel,” you questioned.  “Why do you keep the whole eel, instead of breaking it down into parts?  Wouldn’t it be easier to store just the things you need?  It’s… kind of big, to be preserving the entire fish.”

There was another beat of silence, as if Snape was debating whether or not to indulge your curiosity, or rebuke your obvious attempt to change the subject.  Tapping his pen against his desk a few times, he came to his decision and committed to it by dropping the pen and shifting his chair to face you more easily.  You remained knelt down on the floor, and he leaned one elbow against the arm of his chair, lacing his fingers in his lap before crossing one knee over the other.  “What are the essential parts of the Glower Eel in regards to potion making?” he questioned, in full on Potions Master mode.

You perked up, eager for a chance to learn something new.  “The teeth, eyes, and… uh… glowy… bits.”  You closed your eyes and mentally pinched yourself.  Yeah, great job showing off there, genius.  When you cracked open one eye, you could tell he was trying to refrain from openly laughing at you.

“Bioluminescence,” he provided, though it had the air of a simple correction, and not an insult.  “In this case, caused by the symbiosis between fish and bioluminescent bacteria.  The bacterial colonies themselves have very powerful magical properties when thriving, and are used exclusively in some… more esoteric potions.  The glow of the bacteria attract prey towards the eel, the eel gets to eat, and the bacteria reap the benefit of feeding off of a living host.”

Your eyes snapped anxiously back to the jar as you jerked your hand away from it, as if it would jump to life and snap at you through the glass right as Snape said the word ‘living’.  This time he _did_ let out an audible snort, and he shook his head, massaging his temple with two fingers.

“The eel is quite dead, Miss Goode, I can assure you.  However it is suspended in a Stasis Solution.  Almost everything in here is.”  He waved one hand absently at the shelves of jars you had yet to go through, your gaze hopping to the larger specimens, which were all fully preserved, instead of being broken down.  “What is Stasis Solution used for, again, in regards to potion making.”

You knew this one, and not in a ‘glowy bits’ sort of way.  “It’s a magical preservative for whole, wet ingredients,” you explained.  “It keeps them as fresh and potent as the moment they were collected, with minimal degradation, and is entirely reversible.  It doesn’t interfere with the magical attributes of the ingredient when you do eventually use it in a potion.”  You tried not to look too hopeful that you’d gotten that right. 

Snape quirked a brow, perhaps _mildly_ impressed with you, and he nodded once.  “Very good.  One point to Hufflepuff.”  You beamed, but it fell off of your face instantly as you remembered you were supposed to be hating detention or whatever.  Snape shook his head, amused, before he continued.  “So, I have an eel, which contains some perfectly functional ingredients in its own right.  I also have these bacterial colonies, which are incredibly valuable, but are only useable if they’re alive.  And in order to stay alive, they need a host to feed off of, even if the host is the carcass of a dead fish. So…?”  He trailed off, clearly leaving his sentence hanging with the intent of you filling in the blank.

And you thought you understood now, nodding slowly as you turned back to the specimen, running your finger over the glass to play connect-the-dots with the dimly glowing spots adorning the eel’s skin.  “So, if you broke it down now, the bacterial colonies would no longer have a host, and they would die.  And if they died, they would become impotent.  So you keep the whole eel, not to preserve the _eel_ , but to preserve the colonies.”

This time, he actually did look pleased with you, smirking slightly as he nodded once more.  “Excellent deduction, Miss Goode.  Another point to Hufflepuff.”  He looked away from you then, turning his attention toward some of the other large jars adorning his shelves.  “As you can see, the Glower Eel isn’t the only full body specimen I have.  There are several ingredients that ought to be housed within the complete cadaver to remain viable.  Suriname toad eggs, acromantula venom sacs, mortis bat spleens. You could extract them prematurely and store them separately, but they wouldn’t have the same powerful effect as they do when they’re fresh.  When they’re needed, I dissect them and harvest the parts myself, and then I sort whatever common ingredients are left.  Teeth, eyes, fur, what have you.”

Snape explained this all very casually, just another day in the potions lab, but you experienced an odd sort of delight at the word ‘dissect.’  Before you could stop yourself, you were leaning forward eagerly to catch his eye.  “I dissected a frog in biology class once!  Will _we_ get to dissect anything in class?”

Your candor was met with stony silence and an incredulous look, and you mentally kicked yourself for getting overly excited.  You probably sounded like a real creep now, getting hyped up at the prospect of cutting up dead animals.  But dissecting that frog had been the most interesting thing you’d ever done in the whole of your muggle schooling career.  You could only imagine the strange and bizarre things you could discover while studying the innards of magical creatures. 

But instead of dismissing you outright, Snape canted his head with a thoughtful tilt.  “If you pass your O.W.L.s with an Outstanding and make it into my N.E.W.T. level class, you just might.”  You perked up at that, ready to launch into another series of questions about what sorts of things you might get to dissect, and what sort of potions you might get to make with them, when he raised a hand to silence you.  “Now, I believe you’ve distracted me from your detention for quite long enough, Miss Goode.  And we haven’t even discussed your behavior from today.”

You cringed.  Right.  Your _behavior_.  You certainly weren’t looking forward to this portion of the evening.  With a heavy sigh, you managed to lug yourself up from your kneeling position, brushing dust from your knees, and your robe, and your skirt, and god it was just everywhere what was even the point?  You tried not to sigh again because you didn’t want to sound petulant, but a small huff escaped you anyway as the dust remained stubbornly affixed to your person.  Sparing a quick glance at Snape, who stared back at you with an unamused scowl, you winced as you made your way around to the front of his desk.  After pulling his chair back into place, he leaned his elbows onto his desk and motioned vaguely with one hand, “Have a seat, Miss Goode.”

You spun around awkwardly, before realizing that his absent hand gesture had actually summoned you a chair, which you were pretty sure hadn’t been there just a second ago.  Sinking into the worn brown leather, you closed your eyes a moment and allowed yourself to relax into its relative comfort.  It was certainly a step above “arse freezing stone dungeon floor” and the soft leather under your fingers felt warm in comparison.  You hadn’t realized just how tired you were until this very moment, and the temptation to curl up and pass out in this cozy little chair was powerful.  But you forced your eyes open, and you forced them to focus on your Professor, and you did your best to school your features into the appearance of contrition.  But it was quite futile as you still weren’t sorry for anything, and you weren’t as good at masking your emotions as Snape was.

And Snape seemed to pick up on that as he laced his fingers together and tucked his clasped hands up under his chin.  He regarded you, studying your posture and your warring expression, before asking, “What, exactly, did Mr. DeJarnette say to you this morning?”

You blanched, your face screwing up with apprehension.  Was he really going to make you repeat it?  “Didn’t Professor McGonagall tell you what happened?” you asked hopefully, wanting to avoid having to say the words yourself.

Snape closed his eyes, nodding his assent briefly.  “She explained that there had been an altercation.  Mr. DeJarnette had apparently said some fairly appalling things, but Professor McGonagall was rather reluctant to repeat them out loud.  I need to understand the nature of this incident, so that I may assess it properly.  Because of this, I’d like to hear, directly from you, the sort of inexcusable filth that would prompt a Hufflepuff to respond with physical violence.”

You frowned at this, unsure of his intentions.  Was he trying to determine if your actions had been justified?  Or did he think there was a possibility you’d over reacted, that you were just an _overtly_ _sensitive girl_?  You bristled at the very notion, and you desperately hoped that was not the case; that he knew you a little better than that.  On the other hand, he described whatever had been said as ‘inexcusable filth’.  Perhaps he was just trying to gauge if what DeJarnette said had actually been deserving of such a visceral response from you.  Maybe he was leaning more towards your side.  At least he was asking _you_ , and not DeJarnette.  Sighing through your nose, you clutched your fingers around the arms of the chair as you looked directly at him, your face hardening as you reluctantly explained, “He called my mother a sleazy muggle whore with a taste for good wizard cock.”

Snape’s entire body stiffened, a brief flicker of utter revulsion shadowing his features, before he let out an exhausted groan and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers.  You felt this reaction was in your favor, and you relaxed slightly.  You were probably still in trouble, but you didn’t believe his disgust rested with you.

“Miss Goode,” Snape breathed, folding his fingers together again and resting them against his desk.  “Allow me to extend my deepest apologies on behalf of Slytherin House.  I’ll have you know that I personally do not tolerate any sort of vulgar language or prejudiced ideals in my House.”  It was your turn to arch an incredulous eyebrow, and he narrowed his eyes at your cheekiness.  “I did not say I speak on behalf of Mr. DeJarnette himself.  In fact I’m quite certain he is just as unrepentant of his actions as you are of your own.”  He paused, sighing again as he dropped his gaze away from yours, an act that made you sit up a little straighter.  It was unusual for Snape not to meet someone else’s eyes.  He seemed to be considering his words carefully. 

“The majority of Slytherin students are the children of ancient pure-blood stock who hold some… outdated beliefs,” he explained delicately, but you hardly needed the explanation.  You were well aware of this.  Everyone was.  Still, he pressed on.  “You must understand, that no amount of disciplinary action, or even good talking to’s on my part are going to do anything to change the mind of children raised with that sort of indoctrination, nor is it my place to try.  All I can do is attempt to set a good example, and make sure their positive growth is rewarded and encouraged in an attempt to steer them in the right direction, rather than actively discourage them from going down the wrong path.”

This… had you slightly taken aback.  It made sense, you guessed.  People like DeJarnette were really unlikely to change their minds about their beliefs.  Not that people _couldn’t_ change, it’s just that the chances were slim, unless something drastic took place.  And simply telling them what they did or said or thought was wrong would likely make them even more resentful, most especially when teenage boys were involved.  You knew a week’s worth of detention wasn’t going to make him feel bad for insulting your mother.  In fact it would probably just strengthen his belief that you were trash, since you’d gotten him into this trouble.  It was the part about encouraging their growth that made you dubious, and curious.

“Is that why you favor the Slytherins the way you do?” you probed, unable to keep the question in your mouth.  There was no hope for it.  You were just destined to keep falling out of line tonight.  You winced, wishing you’d maybe chosen your words more carefully, but it was too late now.

Snape, however, nodded once in confirmation.  “There’s more to it than that, but that is part of it.  Slytherins, by their own doing, tend to isolate themselves from the rest of the school.  Relationships between Slytherins and other houses are often rare, unless they were perhaps developed previous to attending Hogwarts.”  He looked pensive, distant, just for a moment, before he shook his head minutely.  “I digress.  I tend to favor my own house because frankly, they don’t have anyone else.  Without their parents, they are in need of a stable adult to rely on, which is the role I play as their Head of House.  And, as you’ve learned, I’m not a terribly likable person, and showing them preferential treatment is one of the few ways I can get them to trust me enough to be approachable.”

You were surprised that Snape was telling you all of this.  You wondered if this was part of the trust that had blossomed between you, or if he was hedging because he knew he’d never be able to guarantee remorse from DeJarnette.  Or any of his students for that matter.  You were touched that he’d taken the time to explain this to you, as it did sort of make you feel better, in a way.  You had a better understanding of why some Slytherins treated you like dirt, and why they’d never feel bad about it.  Perhaps you could stop taking all of their poisonous jabs so personally…

Grinning a little, you shrugged your shoulders in response to his last statement.  “I dunno, Professor.  I like you just fine.”  You looked upwards toward the ceiling then, tapping your chin in an exaggerated gesture of deep thought.  “Then again, it _did_ take like two and a half years.  And lots of pen-based bribery…” You chanced a look back to him, and were met with a withering stare, but instead of shrinking back, you just smiled more broadly.

Snape dropped his head, greasy curtains of hair hiding what you _suspected_ was the smallest of smirks behind them, and you couldn’t help but feel pleased.  He raised his head moments later, strict features schooled back into place to tell you, “Congratulations Miss Goode, you have just _lost_ the two points you earned for Hufflepuff earlier.”  His stern tone didn’t reach his expression though, so even then, you couldn’t bring yourself to feel too badly about it.  You snapped your fingers in mock disappointment, and Snape shook his head with exasperated amusement. 

“You’re also not off the hook for your own behavior today, young lady,” Snape warned, and you were finally forced to subdue your joviality.  He was right, of course.  You had still assaulted another student, even if that student was a chauvinist pig.  You fidgeted slightly in your seat, looking down as you pulled your hands from the arms of the chair to rest in your lap, rubbing your thumb over your sore knuckles.  You didn’t offer anything though.  You didn’t want to be the first to speak up about it.

“I understand how it feels to be provoked as you were.  I also understand the desire for swift retribution.”  You raised your eyes then, head still bowed, and you noticed that Snape had a rather wounded expression, his brows pressed together, his eyes narrow and glittering.  You held his gaze then, because you feel that, yes, he _did_ understand how it felt.  Intimately.  “However, I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that the way you responded was less than ideal.  Violence is rarely the solution.  All you managed to achieve was punishment for yourself, as well as the increased hostility of the one you attacked.  I’m warning you now that DeJarnette is unlikely to simply leave you alone after this.  You made an enemy today.”

You raised your whole head then, your face pinched with distress.  You… Damn it.  You sure hadn’t thought of _that_.  Of course you hadn’t.  In the heat of the moment all you wanted to do was punch DeJarnette’s bloody lights out.  Which… is exactly why Snape was looking so disappointed with you right now.  Not with DeJarnette.  With _you_.  Shame wasn’t a common feeling for you.  You prided yourself in having very little of it, in fact.  But now you could feel it creeping up your neck, hot and prickly, like a sunburn.  You were no better than DeJarnette.  In fact you were probably a little worse.  Because Snape thought you should have known better.  And he was right. 

And it also sounded like he was speaking from experience.

Your gaze dropped back down to your hands, your remorse plain on your face.  Maybe you weren’t sorry for what you’d done.  But you did feel sorry for somehow letting Snape down.  And you were determined to never do it again.  So you’d made an enemy.  Big deal.  From this point forward you would control yourself.  Not rise to the bait.  Not react with heat and fury.  You could do that, because it was obvious to you now that that would hurt DeJarnette more than your fists. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” you whispered, and you really, desperately hoped that he knew what you were sorry for, without you having to spell it out.  You raised your head once again, and you could feel his cold eyes bore into yours like black beetles scuttling through earth.  It was hypnotic.  And painful.  Your breath caught in your chest then, as you got the distinct impression that he could read every nuance of what you were feeling just then.  It almost felt like an intrusion, and you were forced to rip your eyes away from his, glancing at the jars around the room.  At something else.  At _anything_ else, but that burning gaze. 

“I know you are, Miss Goode,” Snape said quietly, and when you chanced a look back, his eyes were turned down towards his desk, and you were able to breathe again.  “I believe that’s enough for tonight.  Head back to your dormitory.  I expect to see you back here again tomorrow after dinner.”

Shifting awkwardly in your seat, you knew that the conversation had come to a natural end, but you felt like you needed to say something more.  You stood, taking your time to smooth down you skirt and robes, searching the office desperately for something.  Anything…

“Thank you, Professor,” you said suddenly, your eyes trained on the Glower Eel on the shelf behind Snape’s desk.  As he lifted his head to meet your eye with a questioning look, you offered a small smile.  “For… for the lesson.  On… the eel…” 

Snape’s gaze was so piercing, so intense, you could feel those scuttly little beetle legs on the back of your skull, but you didn’t look away this time.  You weren’t thanking him for the lesson on the eel.  Or, well… not _just_ the lesson on the eel.  And somehow he knew that.  And you felt your breath hitch again as he gave you a small nod of understanding.  “Of course, Miss Goode.  You’re a bright girl.  I have the utmost confidence that you’ll utilize what you’ve learned here tonight.”

You felt your cheeks flush once again, but this time it was with relief.  He wasn’t disappointed.  Not any more at least.  You’d prove it to him.  Just like you’d proven your prowess in potions, so too would you prove that you had self-control beyond your barbaric display this morning.  You nodded in response, a quiet assurance that you would in fact do just that, before turning your back to him and walking towards the door.  You hesitated on the dark edge of the threshold, muttering a quiet “Goodnight, Professor,” before you stepped out into the darkened potions classroom. 

You were shadowed by an equally quiet “Goodnight, Miss Goode,” before shutting the office door behind you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always appreciated, and questions are always welcome! Thank you for reading!


	4. To the Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4th year. Caught in the kitchens after hours, you and Snape talk pastry and paganism. Like ya do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for how long this took. This chapter fought me tooth and nail. Thanks to everyone who has commented and encouraged me to continue. You all are my life blood.

Homesickness was one of the most difficult things you dealt with while attending Hogwarts.  You understood the plight of some of the other children, to whom Hogwarts felt like home more than their actual homes ever did.  But for you, the long stretches away from the small flat you grew up in with your mother, with its comforting haze of incense smoke and the rickety book shelves full of vinyl records, were utterly depressing.  You loved Hogwarts, truly you did, but it was Winter and Spring breaks that kept you sane.  And in between holidays, you had the kitchens.

You had been told about the entrance to the kitchens quite early on in your time at Hogwarts, as the Hufflepuff common room was literally down the hall from it.  Many a Saturday night you had snuck out with your dorm-mates to nick leftover sweets for your weekly gossip- uh, study sessions.  But it wasn’t until about your third year that you started sneaking to the kitchens on your own.  You shared many interests and pastimes with your mother.  She encouraged your love for art by framing nearly every piece you’d ever given her, including crayon scribbles you’d made as a baby.  She cultivated your passion for music by sharing her own turntable, letting you explore whatever genres you fancied, though you typically had the same tastes.  And she’d nurtured your fascination with plants and nature through numerous little garden boxes hanging from every window of your flat.  But nothing made you feel more at home than when you cooked together, and cooking brought you the greatest sense of comfort.

The first time you’d crept off to the kitchens with the intention of cooking something for yourself, the house elves had been irate.  They couldn’t understand why you would want to make something, heavens forbid, _the muggle way_ , when you could just give them the recipe and they’d make it for you faster than you could snap your fingers.  It took a great deal of clever word manipulation on your part to assure them that the best way they could serve you was simply by showing you where the ingredients were stored.  You had eventually come to a consensus that they would allow you to cook for yourself, _if_ they were allowed to clean up after you.  As if you were really going to argue with _that_ ultimatum. 

Presently in your fourth year, Christmas break was fast approaching, and you were sustained by the fact that you’d be hopping on the Hogwarts Express in a scant week to head home for the rest of the year.  Most of your friends were going home as well, and you’d all agreed to exchange gifts before school let out for the holidays, because the best part about giving gifts was seeing the recipients face when they opened them, right?  But for you, this heartwarming idea had caused a great deal of panic.  Because you didn’t _have_ any gifts to exchange.  You’d been appallingly broke during the last Hogsmeade trip, and while you’d watched your friends return to their dorms carting large shopping bags from Honeydukes and Zonko’s, you had returned emptyhanded.  It seemed absolutely disgraceful to accept their gifts without having anything to give in return.

And so, your options quiet limited, you found yourself in the kitchens on a school night, wrist deep in crescent cake dough, your mothers handwritten recipe card floating magically above the sheet pan you were loading up with hand-crafted pastries.  There were already two sheets of the completed cakes cooling on one of the long, narrow work tables, the little moon shaped treats looking perfectly golden and delicious, if you did say so yourself.  With another batch still in the oven, everything smelled like toasted almonds and warm butter.  You had set up your portable wizarding wireless on the counter at your elbow, the volume turned down low enough so as not to disturb the sleeping elves, but loud enough that you could enjoy the music being broadcast.  After a lot of finessing, you’d charmed its range and frequency to pick up a few muggle radio stations, and you had been utterly delighted with the evening’s selection; they were playing the entirety of Queen’s last album, and you were anticipating the dramatic final track off of ‘A Kind of Magic’ any minute now.  All of your senses were occupied with the fond nostalgia of home.

So of course, you never even heard him come in.

The final batch of crescent cakes were prepared and waiting on their pan.  Now, all that was left to do was wait for the tray in the oven to come out so you could put the last tray in.  And once it was, you could start packing up the cooled cakes into festive little paper bundles to exchange with your friends.  A flawless plan if you’d ever had one!  Wiping your hands with a dish towel, you were whisper-belting the opening lines of ‘Princes of the Universe’ when you turned towards the sink, but were stopped mid-rotation as your shoulder collided directly with something solid, black, and unyielding.

The first thing you did was scream, the startled sound tearing itself from your _soul_ as you stumbled back against the work table, clutching the butter-smeared rag to your chest in an attempt to prevent your heart from leaping out of your rib cage.  The second thing you did was flush, heat and dread all burning their way up from your neck to the top of your head with creeping humiliation.  And the final thing you did was groan, burying your face in the dish towel to hide your shame from the thoroughly amused smirk of Professor Snape. 

You were in several different flavors of trouble.  You had never been caught while illicitly using the kitchens.  _Never_!  So it had never _occurred_ to you just how many school rules you were breaking all at once.  Out of dorm, after hours, in a restricted part of the castle, using school utilities you had no business using.  You’d be lucky if you weren’t serving detention for the rest of the school year.  But then again… your heart gave a curious flutter.  Detention with Snape had never been _that_ bad.

“It’s uncanny how well sound carries through the halls at night,” Snape mused, almost conversationally as he took a step backward to give you room to breathe.  “Imagine my surprise upon hearing rock music of all things drifting down the corridors as I made my rounds this evening.”  His eyes shifted past you to the wizarding wireless humming innocuously on the work table, Brian May’s growling guitar solo filling the silence as ‘Princes of The Universe’ neared its conclusion.  “How did you get that thing to pick up Muggle stations, anyway?”

Snape’s casual curiosity was both oddly welcome and highly concerning.  Your heart was pounding in your throat, and you were attempting to wrap your head around the fact that you hadn’t yet been scolded.  Best not to stare a gift horse in the mouth.  You fumbled for an explanation, extricating your face from the towel, but continuing to twist the cloth in your hands behind your back.  Would tampering with wizard tech be another broken rule?  You knew making muggle things magic was frowned upon; was making magic things mundane just as bad?

“What, uh…” you swallowed thickly, following his eyes to your wireless, which you subtly moved towards, as if attempting to block its soundwaves from reaching Snape’s ears.  “What makes you think it’s a Muggle station?” you asked innocently, meeting his eye only long enough to catch his flawless impassivity.  Squaring up your shoulders with a false sense of confidence, you pressed on against your better judgement, stating quite matter-of-factly “Well, _I’m_ not entirely convinced that Freddie Mercury _isn’t_ a wizard.”

Oh, how you wished you could shove those words back down your throat.  What an utterly ludicrous thing to say.  And yet, all Snape did was raise both eyebrows, as if mildly intrigued by your theory.  He actually appeared to be considering it, folding his arms across his narrow chest before rebounding, “Mercury, you think?  Not David Bowie?  I’ve always had my suspicions.”

You balked, stunned by both his frankness and your good fortune at managing to steer the conversation away from how _utterly freaking screwed_ you were.  Yet you couldn’t prevent the apprehensive giggle from spilling out of you.  “ _Bowie_?” you asked, scandalized.  “Bowie just… _just_ starred in a film that proves there isn’t a magical bone in his body.”  You couldn’t believe you were bantering about this.  With Snape.  Were you dreaming?  Was the heat of the kitchen making you delirious?  “If he were a wizard he would know that goblins have no business being that attractive.  Not even the king of them.”

Snape’s eyes shifted away from you then, one of his hands lifting to pinch his bottom lip between thumb and forefinger, as if deeply analyzing this information against his own evidence towards the contrary.  Gee.  He really _did_ have his suspicions.  You were just lighting up with the prospect of _actually_ investing in this conversation, when he seemed to catch himself.  Brows pressed together, he returned his narrowed gaze back to you, pulling his hand away from his mouth to point an accusatory finger in your direction.  “I’m not here to discuss the magical merits of rock stars with you,” he stated firmly, and you had to wonder if this declaration was for you, or for himself.

“Aren’t you?  I’d much prefer it if you were,” you quipped, plowing ahead with abandon.  You didn’t want to be resigned to your fate just yet.  Besides, you were interested in his magical Bowie concept.  If you could only keep him talking…

But it appeared that your luck had run out.  Leveling you with a steely glare, the beginning of yet another reprimand finally came.  “What exactly are you doing in here, Miss Goode?” he questioned finally, sharp eyes flitting around to the section of work table you had sequestered for yourself.

Self-preservation apparently being the last thing on your mind, you arched a brow and surveyed your surroundings along with him.  “Baking?” you offered numbly.  At that moment, a rather obnoxious bell went off, an hourglass shaped timer rattling on the counter with the ferocity of its ringing.  After silencing it with a flick of your wand, you abandoned your post at the table in order to open the oven, the immediate area suddenly filling with the sweet aroma of almonds.  “I… thought that much was obvious, sir,” you stated innocently, peering over your shoulder at Snape.

Who appeared to be thoroughly unimpressed with your sass.  “Indeed, I _had_ gathered that much,” he spat, his countenance darkening as he observed your apparent disregard for his authority.  “Allow me to rephrase the question.  Why are you baking four dozen crescent cakes in the middle of the night on a Thursday?”

Your shoulders stiffened at that.  Yes, that was a considerably more specific question, and the icy quality of his voice seemed to finally sober you up.  This was not the time for wit.  You were in trouble, and he was all too happy to remind you of that fact with his tone alone.  Working quickly, you cast a charm to levitate the hot tray out of the oven and onto the table, before shutting the oven door to preserve the heat.  You weren’t sure if your entire project was about to be scrapped, so it seemed presumptuous to attempt to add the new tray to the oven just yet.  Leaning your hip against the warm oven door, you considered your options.  However, the only viable one was simply to tell the truth.

“The holidays,” you explained softly, rolling your wand between your hands in a nervous gesture that had gotten you scolded by Professor Flitwick on more than one occasion.  “My friends, they want to exchange gifts tomorrow, before we all leave for break.  And I couldn’t affor-…” you wince, averting your gaze to the floor.  “I mean, I just didn’t have the chance to buy anything during the last Hogsmeade trip.  So I thought… I just… thought…”  You felt like a first year again, having to explain yourself for your mundane muggle compromises.  Indeed, this whole situation felt remarkably similar to your first meaningful interaction with your Potions Professor.  Only this time you really _were_ breaking rules, which greatly reduced your chances of getting away unscathed.

Snape spared you from having to tumble over your own words for much longer.  “While I rather doubt you did much _thinking_ at all, you are clearly quite… thoughtful, Miss Goode.”  You ceased your fidgeting with your wand, slipping it into your shirtsleeve as your eyes snapped back to his with a surge of optimism.  Which must have been evident on your face, as he responded with a long suffering sigh.  “How much longer do you think you’ll be?”

Not wanting to miss your opportunity, you burst into action, throwing open the oven door before hastily taking up the last tray of cakes.  “Thirty minutes?” you suggested honestly, sliding the pan into the oven before nudging the door closed with your hip.  Taking up the magically attuned timer, you flipped the hourglass over twice, watching one end fill with sand which began its steady downpour once you set it back on the table.  “They take about twenty minutes to bake.  In the meantime I was going to start wrapping up the cooled ones.  The house elves insist on cleaning up for me so, really, I shouldn’t be too long…”  You turned back to him then, your hands clasped anxiously against your midsection, waiting to see if this plan was acceptable to him.

Snape was looking you over rather critically, eyes shifting from your writhing hands, to your hope filled eyes, to the work table littered with the evidence of your labor.  “You shall clean this mess yourself, without magic, and without aide from the house elves.”  You blinked uncertainly, looking to the small pile of bowls, spatulas, spoons and cups you had accumulated, and back to him again.  Waving his hand dismissively, he explained, “Consider it your punishment for being out after hours.” 

He… was letting you off easy.  _Way_ easy.  Your chest suddenly felt tight, swelling with a deep appreciation you didn’t know how to express.  He could have demanded you trash everything and sent you back to bed empty handed.  Would have done so with a malicious grin to anyone else, you were certain, but he was allowing you to finish your work.  You could have kissed him.  But instead you nodded your head woodenly with acceptance, before gathering up your baking equipment, stacking and slotting bowls and cups into each before placing them into the nearest sink, submerging them in hot soapy water to soak.  Nodding once he saw you acquiescing to his terms, he stepped to the work table, pulling out one of the high wooden stools, before perching himself upon it with one knee crossed over the other.

“You’ll… be staying then?” you asked, drying your hands on a dish towel before procuring a small roll of baking parchment and a ball of butchers twine from one of the many cabinets.  It took a great deal of concentration, as frankly you were rubbish at this sort of thing, but with a bit of charm work you managed to give the paper a rather pleasant green and red tartan pattern.  You then tried to turn the twine gold, but only ended up making it a sort of dull bronze.  You sighed.  It would have to do.

“Well, someone needs to oversee your… detention,” Snape explained, surveying your poor spell work, but keeping any commentary on it to himself.  “As well as make sure you get back to your dormitory in a _timely_ fashion.”  He glanced then to the hourglass, as if gauging how much longer he would be stuck here.  You internally groaned at that.  He may have let you off the hook with a slap on the wrist, but he was certain to continue to remind you that you were taking up a great deal of his time.  In the middle of the night.

“Yes, sir,” you answered, hoping your voice contained the proper amount of remorse.  Working quickly, you rolled out a length of your lovely new wrapping paper, and then debated whether or not to use magic to directly cut it, or if you should conjure up a pair of scissors.  Deciding your transfiguration skills were even more abysmal than your charms, you traced the tip of your wand across the paper, relishing the satisfying slicing sound as you created several neat little squares.  You did the same on several lengths of bronze twine, before you finally had all you would need to begin the wrapping.  Pulling over one of the pans of cooled cakes, you plucked off two of the little cookies, before you were overcome by a sudden realization.

“How did you know these were called ‘Crescent Cakes’?” you asked abruptly, turning your attention to your professor, who appeared to have been silently criticizing your magical abilities for the past several minutes.  His face remained stony but for the arch of a single brow, which told you that the answer should have been obvious.

“You mean besides that they are, in fact, cakes shaped like crescents?” Snape deadpanned, speaking as though you were a very slow first year.

“I mean it!  This is…” you peered around frantically, setting the cakes down on the wrapping paper before you snatched the recipe card out of the air from where it had been hovering.  “This is my mother’s recipe!  I’ve been making these since I was like, four!  They could have been called anything, but you guessed it exactly.” 

Holding the card out to him, Snape glanced from the butter stained page, to your very serious face, and back, before seizing it from your hands.  He stared down at the list of ingredients contemplatively, his impassive expression softening into something closer to curiosity.  “Your mother?” he asked quietly, and at your nod, persisted.  “And she is… how did you describe it… the ‘Muggle half of your equation’?”

Your face reddened at that.  You were immediately on edge, uncertain as to why Snape was bringing that particular detail up.  You crossed your arms over your chest defensively, your brows creasing as you nodded again.  “Yes, she is,” you answered, your voice firm with warning.  You were sure he remembered what happened the _last_ time a Slytherin had said anything disparaging towards your mother.

Snape had caught on to your discomfort easily though, for his answer came with a considerably softer tone.  “I only ask, Miss Goode, because this is a very old witch’s recipe,” he held the page back out to you, and your tension seemed to melt away at this declaration.  “It’s been around for decades, at least.  My own…” he hesitated, watching your hands as you carefully took the card back from him.  Eyes shifting away then, he carried on, though his voice seemed strained.  “My own mother would make them… From time to time.”

Holding the card to your chest, you were suddenly breathless from the weight of this confession.  Teachers seemed to have this secretiveness about them, the sort of mystique that made you forget that they were… you know, _people_ , with lives and families outside of these stone walls.  It never came up.  With very little exception, you knew virtually nothing about the personal lives of your professors.  It wasn’t the fact that Snape _had_ a mom, because of course he did; everyone did.  But it was the knowledge that he was willing to speak about her, however briefly, with you. He’d hesitated before revealing this small parallel between your childhoods, yet he’d told you nonetheless.  Overwhelmed with emotion you couldn’t quite define, you peered down at the recipe in your hands.  You didn’t want to ruin this moment, to break the delicate thread that now connected you.  You didn’t want to make him regret sharing this.

“An old witch’s recipe?” you repeated, your voice unusually thick, though you ignored it, hoping Snape would too.  Placing the recipe reverently back on the counter top, you got back to the task at hand, which was folding the wrapping paper into neat little bundles around the cakes.  You worked precisely, but efficiently, which gave you the perfect excuse not to meet his eyes.  “As in, _real_ witches have been making these for years?  Mum’s going to be _thrilled_ to hear that.”

If Snape had picked up on the odd tension in your voice, he was kind enough to ignore it.  “Indeed. I honestly thought you had procured it from the library.”  Leaning over with his arms crossed, he raked his eyes over the card once again.  “It’s a near replica of the olden recipes, though it seems your mother added sugar, which I cannot fault her for.  They might be traditional but they usually taste like sawdust.”  He eyed the tray of cakes then, with the same sort of intensity he might give one of your potions assignments.  “Any idea where _she_ got it from?”

Tying off the ribbon of the first packet, you set it aside on the countertop before considering his question.  You weren’t entirely certain where your mother had gotten the recipe from, as they had been ‘family tradition’ since you were very small.  But if they were customarily witchy, and weren’t really a common muggle recipe… you had a pretty good idea how she’d gotten it.  “Well, my mother, she’s…”  You paused a moment, trying to think of the best way to describe her.  If Snape had any muggle upbringing, as you heavily suspected, then you hoped he would understand. “She’s always been one of those… ‘Age of Aquarius’ types?”

This elicited a reaction that caught you more off guard than anything else had this evening; Snape laughed.  It was more of a bark, a sharp burst of rusty sound, but it was undeniably a _laugh_.  And it wasn’t entirely derisive either; it sounded suspiciously like mirth.  You were still not entirely sure that you _weren’t_ delirious but… that smile was a good look for him.  You couldn’t contain your own anxious giggle then, though your shoulders drooped with relief.  “Oh good!  You get my meaning then?”

“Oh, certainly,” Snape snorted, shaking his head with amusement.  He finally uncrossed his arms then, instead leaning an elbow against the work table.  It appeared that he was finally opening up a little.  “I do believe the New Forest Coven is _still_ in trouble with the Ministry for the whole Gerald Gardner debacle.”  At your bemused expression, he rolled his eyes slightly, but explained without pretense.  “Gardner was a muggle who had been ‘initiated’ into a coven of real witches, probably for a good laugh at his expense.  He went on to publish a few books on ‘magic and witchcraft’, used what he’d learned from their customs and beliefs to form his own type of paganism, and now he’s called ‘The Father of Wicca’.  The Ministry didn’t think much of it when they first found out; figured no one was going to believe him anyway.  But now it’s almost 30 years later, Gardner is dead, and the neopagan phenomena is too big for even the Office of Misinformation to try and tackle.  The result being muggles dancing around in the moonlight and practicing divination and… well.  Getting their hands on old witch’s recipes and having no idea what they’ve really got.”

You were absolutely dumbstruck.  All those years of abiding your mother’s eclectic beliefs, sometimes thinking she was off her gourd.  You thought back to the little pouch of crystals and patchouli oil that still hung from your school bag, and you couldn’t help but wonder… “There’s stock in it then?  The basis of all that stuff actually comes from something _real_?”

“It’s real for us,” Snape shrugged, offhandedly leaning over and nicking one of the cakes from the sheet pan.  You made no move to stop him.  “ _If_ a bit outdated.  For muggles, they made a religion out of something which does not belong to them, something they could never truly understand.”  This was said with such bitterness, that you actually felt a little guilty about your mother’s participation in it.  “Even if they could, it doesn’t actually do anything for them, besides provide false hope… or peace of mind, I suppose.”  He snapped the little cookie in half.  “On the other hand, more muggles are observing Sabbats and Esbats than most wizards do today.  Modern magic folk might celebrate Samhain or Yule, but the other days have gone to the wayside.  Muggles are keeping our traditions better than we are.”  He popped half of the crescent into his mouth, chewing slowly as he swiped a crumb from the corner of his lip, and his eyelashes practically fluttered.  “Dear _god_ , how much butter did you put in these things?”

You smiled sincerely at that; nothing warmed you quite like seeing someone else enjoy your cooking.  “Apparently, a very traditional amount,” you teased, proceeding on to your next parcel of cakes.  He narrowed his eyes coolly at your keen display of sassiness once again, but kept silent as he finished the next bit of cake.  Conversation dissolved into comfortable silence as you continued your wrapping, and Snape watched on with dull interest.  He’d given you a lot to ponder, as he often did, and you found yourself looking forward to your visit home even more.  The mountain of books your mother had on crystals and astrology and ‘magik’ was looking far more interesting than it ever had in your young life. 

Once the last tray was taken out of the oven, you decided to wash the dishes while the cakes cooled.  Sleeves rolled up to your elbows, you made quick work of the pile of bowls and cups, as cleaning things the muggle way was a typical chore for you.  Several house elves watched on anxiously from their cupboards, and you heard mutterings about how unfair the Master of Potions was being.  You got the impression that they were probably going to re-wash all of this stuff anyway, so you thought it practical not to agonize over them.  Though you made a good show of scrubbing and rinsing and drying while Snape’s eyes were on your back.

“Are these… anisette?”  You jumped slightly at the abrupt question, silence suddenly broken by Snape’s ever smooth baritone.  Looking over your shoulder as you dried the assortment of spatulas and knives, you saw that he’d taken another cake, this one from the last batch fresh from the oven.  Your cheeks tinted at this.

“Star anise,” you corrected, setting the last of the utensils onto the counter top. (Surely he’d allow the elves to put everything away?  They were the only ones who knew where all this stuff went, after all.)  Pulling your sleeves back down and fiddling with the buttons on your cuffs, you joined him next to the work table.  “Don’t think the elves would let me have anisette, even if they had it.”  You took up one of the cakes, finally allowing yourself to partake in your own handiwork as you bit off one of the points. 

He was regarding you with another of his impassive looks, but ultimately joined you in the indulgence.  You waited with bated breath for his reaction, but he simply rolled his eyes at your eager face.  “The rest were almond.  Anise isn’t a very popular flavor these days,” he stated pointedly, though it was clear to you that he enjoyed them, despite his best efforts.

Shrugging a little, you placed four of the small cakes onto one of the squares of wrapping paper you had left.  “No, it isn’t.  It’s definitely an… acquired taste.  But it’s certainly _my_ favorite,” you explained fondly, slipping a second square of paper on top of the cakes.  You folded the edges into a much larger bundle to contain the greater number of pastries, before trying two lengths of twine together to finish securing the package. “These were for my… private stash, anyway,” you admitted sheepishly, holding up the parcel by its string and presenting it to your professor.

Snape’s face was unreadable as his eyes flickered from yours, to the gift you were offering him.  He didn’t make a move.  You’d rather hoped you were beyond this nonsense.  Why couldn’t the man simply accept something from you without questioning your sincerity?  Would he ever actually trust you?  With an exasperated sigh, you set the package on the table, making sure they were very close to his elbow so that your intentions were clear.  Take them or leave them. 

After storing away your wizarding wireless and baking timer, you began loading up your messenger bag with the bundles of cakes you’d made, before tossing the rest of the anise cookies into a small tin that you’d brought along in anticipation of replenishing your personal hoard.  That done, you placed the sheet pan into the nearest sink, merely running water over it, as the House Elves had, indeed, already started re-washing all of your equipment again.  Leaving three little packages on the countertop for said elves, you turned to find the stool Snape had previously occupied was now empty.  He was already waiting by the door out of the kitchen, his arms crossed impatiently over his chest.

“Well?” he called out to you, and you straightened up a bit.  Giving the kitchen a final onceover to make sure you hadn’t forgotten anything, you noticed that the work table was empty.  Nothing left on it at all. 

“Coming,” you answered, biting your bottom lip to quash your smile. 

An acquired taste, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [What’s an “Age of Aquarius” type?](https://rose0jam.tumblr.com/post/184178384663/what-is-a-age-of-aquarius-type) 
> 
> Also, BONUS!
> 
> Crescent Cakes
> 
> Adapted from Wicca: A Guide for the Solitary Practitioner by Scott Cunningham
> 
> 1 cup finely ground almonds  
> 1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour  
> 1/2 cup powdered sugar  
> 1/4 tsp almond (or anise) extract  
> 1/2 cup butter, softened  
> 1 egg yolk
> 
> Combine almonds, flour, sugar and almond extract until thoroughly mixed. With the hands, work in butter and egg yolk until well blended. Chill dough, 1 hour at least, or until ready to use. Preheat oven to 325 degrees F. Pinch off pieces of dough about the size of walnuts and shape into crescents. Place on greased baking sheets and bake for about 20 minutes.
> 
> As always, comments are always appreciated, and questions are always welcome! Thank you for reading!


	5. Just a Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5th year. With O.W.L.’s approaching, Sprout passes off your Career Advice meeting to Snape to talk about your future.

The Hogwarts greenhouses were typically a source of great comfort to you.  They were always so bright and warm, filled with everything you loved most in the world; nature, beauty, art, science.  If you had any one dream for the future, it was that you might one day live in a place where you could have a real garden of your own.  You had made due with window boxes in the city, but they were only good for flowers and common cooking herbs.  You certainly wouldn’t be able to plant any magical flora in those, and while Potions was your favorite subject, Herbology was a very close second.  The sketchbook your mother had given you in your first year was brimming with drawings of all the new plants and fungi you’d discovered in your time here at Hogwarts, their detail and precision sharpening with each subsequent year.  Botanical illustrations had always been your forte, even when you were small and the best you could manage was a crayon daisy.

But no amount of sunlight or warmth was enough to assuage your anxiety at this moment.  Thinking about your future in terms of whether you wanted a greenhouse or a traditional garden was all well and good.  It was thinking about what you were going to potentially do for the rest of your life that was filling you with existential dread.  Seated at one of the long greenhouse tables outside of Professor Sprout’s office, you stared numbly at the brightly colored pamphlets you’d collected from the common room.  You’d only picked up three; one from Saint Mungo’s, detailing all the ways you weren’t cut out to be a Healer, and two from a couple of potions shops in Diagon Alley, both of which made your skin crawl with the prospect of working in _retail_.  It seemed your options were limited.  And that was terrifying you.

What if you were about to spend seven years of your life attending a school for magic, and in the end you weren’t qualified for anything?  It’s not like you could go back to the Muggle world.  Sure, you were receiving the finest magical education in the world but it wasn’t like you could put _that_ on a CV.  And now that you had been in _this_ world, you didn’t think you could ever leave it.  Which left you with what?  Being a ‘normal’ person with a normal job?  It sounded utterly dull.  It wasn’t that you thought you were extraordinary, deserving of a fascinating life full of adventure.  You just wanted to do something _meaningful_.  You sighed as you shuffled around the leaflets again.  Alas, wasn’t that the dream of _every_ stupid 16 year old?  Wanting to change the world?

Your mother’s life before you’d been born had been transient; traveling the country, following bands, sleeping on couches and in the backseats of cars.  Her exploits had been financed by her own parents, your grandparents, whom you’d never met, as they’d dropped your mother on her arse the second they found out she was pregnant.  It wasn’t until you had come along that your mother had settled down, working odd jobs until finally finding lasting employment at a local pub.  You knew that she adored her position, having been promoted from waitress to bartender before you’d gotten your Hogwarts letter.  She collected stories from patrons during the late nights, sometimes sharing slightly censored versions of them with you over breakfast when you were much younger.  She told you she was happy, and you knew that she was.  But you always felt that you had put an end to her real dreams.  She would never admit that, probably didn’t even think it.  But still… more than anything, you wanted to make that up to her. 

Behind you, the door to Professor Sprout’s office suddenly opened, and you were pulled from your reverie as Lawrence Hollingsworth emerged, looking rather dazed and overwhelmed, that was, until he spotted you.  You squinted curiously at him, and he grinned lopsidedly back, before casually making his way over.  He plopped himself onto the bench beside you, facing the opposite direction as he leaned his back against the table. 

“Ready for the first day of the rest of your life?” Lawrence asked, his smile showing every one of his gleaming white teeth as he nudged his shoulder playfully against yours.  You rolled your eyes at his teasing (he _knew_ how anxious you were about this), before shoving him back a little harder in return, but he only chuckled good-naturedly. 

“Oh yeah, _really_ looking forward to it,” you said with mock enthusiasm, before slumping glumly with your elbows on the table and your chin in your hands.  “Is it bad?”

“What, Career Advice?  Pleeese.” Lawrence waved his hand dismissively.  “It’s not like it’s a test.  And I’ve told you, you don’t have to commit to whatever you pick in there.  Besides, it’s Professor Sprout.  How bad could it be?” 

You nodded your assent to that.  He had a point.  It was the same point he’d been making for like a week since the Career Advice announcements had been posted in the common room, but it still hadn’t stuck.  You were grateful he was here to remind you now, though.  He’d been quite supportive since you’d confessed your fears about your future to him, and he’d done his best to soothe you by pointing out the flaws in your logic.  Lawrence was always very kindhearted, not just to you, but to everyone, in and out of your own house; there was a reason he was made Prefect this year.  As an added bonus, he was also very good looking; dark skin, neatly cropped hair, athletic build from his position as Beater on the Quidditch team.  A real Hufflepuff Heartthrob. 

He was also entirely smitten with you. 

It had all started at the beginning of the term.  O.W.L.’s looming in the distance, Lawrence had actually approached you on the train in hopes of securing the position as your Potion’s partner for the coming year.  He’d explained that his grades had been miserably low in the subject, but his ambitions to follow in his father’s footsteps as an Auror meant he needed to get high marks on his O.W.L.’s.  When you’d informed him that Snape wouldn’t accept anything less than an Outstanding, the boy had literally thrown himself on the ground to beg for your help.  You hastily agreed, just to get him to stand back up again, before explaining that you weren’t going to carry him.  If he wanted to get better, he’d have to put in the work.  And surprisingly enough, he’d agreed.  As long as you guided, he would follow.

And he turned out to be a very receptive pupil.  You’d tentatively taken on the role as tutor, aiding him with his homework, helping him review for tests, explaining that if he just stopped studying from the damn text book and actually took down Professor Snape’s notes… Ah, but alas.  Lawrence, like many, _many_ other students, suffered from Snape Intimidation Syndrome.  Outside of the classroom, Lawrence understood the material well enough.  But put him down in the dungeons, in the front row of the classroom, with the Potions Master looming before him, and he became a regular butterfingers.  Since becoming your in-class partner, however, he’d developed a steadier hand.  Snape tended to avoid giving _you_ any guff, and had started laying off of Lawrence by association.  You’d felt an immense swell of pride when Lawrence had shown you his first ever perfect marks on a potions assignment.  It had also been the first time he kissed you.

Granted, it had also been the last time.  Lawrence had apologized profusely, explaining he’d just been overwhelmed, with uh, gratitude, and you had easily laughed it off, as it hadn’t really bothered you.  It wasn’t the first time you’d kissed a boy, and surely wouldn’t be the last, but there had been a notable shift between the two of you since then.  It seemed that the contact had awoken some deep comprehension within Lawrence, like maybe he finally realized that he wanted to be more than just friends with you.  The problem was, he hadn’t actually asked you out yet.  There had been a radical increase in casual touches, in distracted conversations when you were supposed to be studying, in requests to spend time together outside of academics.  And while you had to admit, the attention was nice (you’d even gotten hate mail from some other girl! It had been a _very_ exciting moment for you), the fact remained that he still hadn’t asked you to be his girlfriend. 

And honestly, you didn’t know how you would answer if he did. Some of your dorm mates had insisted you strike while the iron was hot, to just ask him out yourself.  And you _had_ considered it, but something was stopping you.  Just as he couldn’t come to a decision about it, neither could you.  It wasn’t that you didn’t like him.  Quite the contrary, he’d grown to be one of your dearest friends.  And there was no denying that he was a hell of a catch; smart, kind, funny, attractive.  He seemed to have what he wanted in life already planned out, his goals set in stone.  But you were still floundering to find your own.  As hard as you tried to envision it, you weren’t sure if you could see your future tied to his.  Then again, Trelawney liked to remind you that your third eye was very nearsighted.

“Earth to Gwen,” Lawrence said suddenly, waving a hand in front of your eyes to try and get you out of your trance.  You blinked stupidly, turning your head slowly to face him, and he smiled sympathetically in return.  With casual ease, he twisted toward you and rubbed a hand in slow circles against your back, a soothing gesture that made you relax slightly.  “You’re really twisted up about this, huh?” he asked quietly, and you felt your cheeks flush with sudden heat.  Did he know you were thinking about…?

Oh!  No, he meant the career advice.  Of course.  You blushed even darker and looked down at the table again, shuffling around the meager selection of pamphlets.  “I guess I am.  I hope Professor Spout can help me figure this stuff out.  There has to be more I can do with potions than just… shop work or healing.”  You huffed and tossed them back down, watching them scatter across the table.

Lawrence had stopped stroking, though his hand remained a warm, heavy weight on the small of your back.  It sent a peculiar wave of… _something_ through you, and when you turned to meet his eyes again, he was already looking directly into yours.  He’d moved closer, his face mere inches away, and it caught you off guard, your breath hitching in your throat.  You saw his gaze flicker down to your mouth, before he took a deep breath.  “Look, Gwen, are you doing anything toni-”

“Miss Goode?”

You both sprang apart from each other as Professor Sprout called your name, Lawrence scrambling to his feet quickly as you made a show of collecting the booklets you had carelessly tossed away.  Sprout was standing in the doorway of her office, her hands on her hips with a suspicious smile on her round face.  “Mister Hollingsworth, I think you ought to be getting back to class, don’t you?”

Lawrence’s own cheeks reddened, and he nodded in agreement, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck.  “Yes, ma’am.  Sorry ma’am.”  He glanced your way as you finally stood, and offered you another encouraging grin, along with a double thumbs up.  “I’ll see you later, yeah?” he asked, and you couldn’t miss the note of hope in his voice.  It made your heart ache, and you feared it wasn’t entirely in a good way.

“Yeah, of course,” you replied, and returned his thumbs up, though not quite as enthusiastically.  With a wave to you, and a polite nod to Professor Sprout, Lawrence exited the greenhouse.  You watched his progress a little ways through the glass, before turning back to Sprout, who was still regarding you with that knowing smile, and it only made your face grow hotter.  “ _What?_ ” you demanded, though your voice had risen an octave.

“Oh, nothing!” Professor Sprout chuckled, betraying the fact that it was clearly _something_.  “Ah, just young love,” she admitted airily, stepping aside to allow you entry into her office, but you were rooted to the spot in utter mortification.  At your hesitation, Sprout rolled her eyes, though the grin on her face did not falter.  “Don’t give me that look, Miss Goode.  You two have been dancing around each other since the start of term.  You can’t think it was only obvious to other students?”

You snapped your mouth shut, not having realized it was hanging open.  If any more blood rushed to your face, you feared you might swoon on the spot.  It already felt prickly and uncomfortable, like the rest of you.  “So, what?  Are we just staffroom gossip for you?” you asked hotly, though there wasn’t much malice behind it; just quiet resignation as you made your way into Sprout’s office. 

She shut the door behind you as you settled into one of the stiff backed wooden chairs that had been brought in.  Her office was indistinguishable from the rest of the greenhouse, filled as it was with hanging vines and towering bushes.  The only thing that gave away the room’s true nature was the tiny wooden desk placed in the center, and some ancient looking filing cabinets that took up the back wall.  Settling down behind said desk, Sprout regarded you thoughtfully. 

“You’re much more than that, Gwendolyn.  You know that I and several of your other professors think very highly of you,” she assured, and that made you relax a little.  She only used first names when she’d gone into mom-mode.  Professor Spout was the sort of woman you wished you’d had as a grandmother.  Since the very moment you’d been sorted into her house, she’d made it clear to you, as well as to every single one of her students, that you were wanted, valued, and appreciated in Hufflepuff.  The house often got a bad rap, accused of being made up of ‘leftovers’ who couldn’t get into Gryffindor, Ravenclaw or Slytherin.  Sprout, on the other hand, held the opinion that Hufflepuff possessed attributes from all three of the other houses, but with vastly differing motivations.  You were brave, without being reckless.  Intelligent, without being hypercritical.  Ambitious, without being selfish.  She saw the very best in you, and reminded you of it as often as she could. 

“I’m sorry, Professor,” you sighed sullenly, sliding your bag off of your shoulder and letting it flop onto the dirt floor beside you.  You knew you could talk to her about this, about your warring emotions over Lawrence, but you held you tongue.  That’s not what this meeting was supposed to be for.  “I’m just… feeling a little lost,” you admitted, fidgeting with the pamphlets, but they were getting rumpled and damp from being clenched in your clammy hands. 

“I can tell,” Sprout affirmed, her voice still kind and cajoling.  “I see you picked up some occupational literature.  Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind.  Have you thought of what you might like to do once you’ve left Hogwarts?”

Inexplicably, your throat tightened up with barely restrained emotion.  You were actually on the verge of tears.  Because you _had_ thought of what you’d like to do after leaving Hogwarts, but you had no idea if any of your ideas made for a viable living.  As usual, you felt like you knew absolutely nothing about the wizarding world.  How did _anyone_ make a living in it?  The only adults you knew within this world were shop keepers, professors, or government workers.  But none of those offered what you felt like you needed, your deep seeded desire to do something important.  To help people.  And the one profession that did seem to offer that was sorely out of your reach.

Clearing your throat, your voice was still tense as you explained, “I thought I might like to be a Healer, or a Mediwitch, but…” You sighed and shrugged, isolating the flyer from Saint Mungos, peeling it open and gazing down at it numbly.  “I know I don’t have the grades for it.  I’ll be _lucky_ to get an Acceptable in Charms, and I very well might get a Troll in Transfiguration.”

The sound of shuffling paper caused you to look up, and you saw Sprout flipping through a thick folder.  With a thrill of dread, you realized it must be your student record.  She appeared to be comparing pages, and with a small sigh, she looked up with a tight smile.  “Professor McGonagall has indeed left a note here reminding me that she only accepts students who get an Exceeds Expectations on their O.W.L.’s.”  At the forlorn expression on your face, Sprout flipped the file shut, and leaned her elbows forward onto her desk, clasping her hands together.  “Let’s approach this differently.  Tell me what you _like_ doing.  What are you best at, that you _also_ enjoy?” 

“Potions,” you answer immediately, but smile apologetically before hastily adding, “And Herbology, of course.” 

Sprout nodded patiently, as if she’d been expecting that response.  “Of course, dear.  But judging by the way you’re strangling those poor pamphlets, you aren’t terribly interested in the ‘selling for profit’ aspect of it?”  You looked down at the crumpled papers in your hands, and immediately went about smoothing them out.  One was from Slug & Jiggers Apothecary, while the other was from Madam Primpernelle’s Beautifying Potions.  Both of them made you feel a little nauseous.

“You could say that,” you muttered, sighing as you just gave up and leaned over, stuffing all three booklets into your bag and wiping your sweaty palms over your skirt.  “But I don’t know what else I can _do_ with potions, that doesn’t require me to be good at everything else.”

Sprout nodded with understanding, and she hummed thoughtfully as she took in your fretful appearance.  “I had rather hoped you would jump to say ‘Herbology’ first,” she teased affably, pulling out a piece of parchment and loading up her quill with ink.  “Goodness knows you’d be an excellent Herbologist, and you better believe I’m not letting you leave this office without you giving me your word that you’ll at least _consider_ a career in it.”  She was carefully composing a note, her speech stilted as she concentrated on both writing and speaking.  “But for now, I’m going to send you to Professor Snape to continue this discussion.  I believe he’s far more qualified to advise you on potential career paths in potions than I am.”  She held up the note, re-reading it once before folding it into thirds.  “And I’m sure he won’t mind.  You two are on good terms, yes?”

Now that _really_ made you blush.  You coughed into your elbow in an attempt to cover your face, but you couldn’t stop yourself.  You _had_ to know.  “Does _he_ say that?” you asked, hoping you sounded casual, but knowing you sounded hopeful.  Why was it that the thought of gaining Snape’s approval caused butterflies to burst into your stomach, but thinking about dating _or_ rejecting Lawrence Hollingsworth made you feel like your guts were full of worms?

Sprout smiled that damned perceptive smile again, before gathering up both her note and your school record.  “Perhaps not in so many words.  But as I said, a great deal of the staff here that have a very high opinion of you, and Professor Snape may or may not be one of them.”  She winked as she held the folder out to you.  “You certainly didn’t hear that from _me,_ though.”

You scraped your teeth over your bottom lip as you accepted the proffered papers with shaking hands, staring reverently down at your student record.  “Is this… I mean, is it usual to send students to another Head of House for this?  Doesn’t he have his own house to advise?”  The last thing you wanted to do was go down into the dungeons, only to be turned away, or worse, accused of taking away valuable time from a Slytherin.  Oh god what if you ran into DeJarnette…?

Sprout was looking up at a clock hung haphazardly above the office door.  “Professor Snape finished up his meetings yesterday evening, I believe.  And as he and I share a free period right about now, I can almost guarantee that you’ll catch him in the staffroom, if you hurry.”  You nearly fell out of your chair in your haste to seize your bag and hurry as instructed, but Sprout caught your eye with a sharp and purposeful look, making you freeze.  “Have I got your word about considering Herbology?”

You didn’t hesitate.  A genuine smile spread over your face as you nodded your agreement.  “Of course, Professor,” you assured her, rising to your feet more slowly now, hitching your bag over your shoulder.  “I promise.  I _do_ love Herbology, and if things don’t work out with Professor Snape, I’ll come right back here to cry about it to you.”  You were mostly teasing, but you weren’t fibbing, either.  You’d cried into Sprout’s ample bosom over less in your earlier years, and you weren’t even ashamed to admit that.

Sprout nodded amiably, finding this compromise perfectly acceptable.  Standing from her desk, she made her way around it to you and took one of your hands, patting it fondly as she beamed up at you.  “I know you will, dear.  I have no doubt you’ll find what’s right for you, though.”  Still holding your hand, she walked you towards the door, opening it to find the greenhouse empty; the next student hadn’t arrived yet.  Leaning close to you, she released your hand and gave your shoulder an encouraging squeeze.  “And remember, you can come cry to me if things don’t work out with _Lawrence_ , either,” she added quietly, and you felt the blood run out of your face this time.  You looked over to her, astonished and a little affronted, but she merely smiled pacifyingly.  “I’m not saying things will go badly!  Frankly, I think you two would make a rather charming couple.  But I’ve been a teacher for a very, very long time, Gwendolyn.  All I mean is that I’m here for you, no matter what happens.”

Nodding slowly, you swallowed the lump in your throat, before giving Professor Sprout a half hug, which she returned, warmly as ever.  After the routine goodbyes, followed by a heartfelt wish of good luck, you made your way out of the greenhouse and onto the grounds.  You knew Sprout had told you to hurry, but you were suddenly bogged down by the weight of your thoughts.  Mostly, you felt _guilty_.  Your friends, your head of house, hell, even your own mother had encouraged you to take the next step with Lawrence, because what did you have to lose?  And they were right.  They were all right.  You had no good excuse not to give it a try.  Everyone was being so supportive and encouraging.  Everyone else thought taking things to the next level was a good idea.  Except for you.

You liked him.  You really did.  And maybe it was because you liked him so much that you were hesitant to go any further.  You wanted to stay close with him, but any potential for lasting friendship could be destroyed by heartbreak.  Heartbreak sounded _exhausting_ , and you weren’t going to kid yourself into thinking that falling in love at 16 would lead to anything _but_ heartbreak.  Maybe you were a little cynical for teenager, but you saw it happening all around you, all the time.  Couples who once appeared so perfect for each other turned into hostile adversaries the second they broke up, usually over something dumb.  And you didn’t want that, for yourself, or for Lawrence.  But how to let him down, when he’d sounded so hopeful earlier…  You didn’t have time to be thinking about this!  Just because you said you would see him later didn’t mean you had to make your decision about him right this moment.  There were more important things to concentrate on.

Though you had admittedly been dragging arse across the grounds, you eventually found your way to the Entrance Hall, before heading down the first floor corridor to the staffroom.  Standing before the dark wood door flanked by gargoyles that were giving you the eye, you felt panic slowly swell within you.  You absently placed a hand to your throat, simultaneously feeling your rapidly fluttering pulse under your fingers, while also trying to discourage the sick feeling rising up your esophagus.  What if Snape didn’t have anything for you?  What if he scoffed at your yearning to do something worthwhile?  What if he thought your desire to help others was foolish?  What if-

“Miss Goode!  What do you think you’re doing?  Students aren’t allowed in there, and you ought to be in class!”

The sudden bark of Professor McGonagall’s Scottish brogue nearly caused you to jump out of your goddamn skin.  You just barely managed to keep yourself from dropping your student file, clutching it tightly to your chest as your knees weakened.  Wilting against one of the gargoyles, who shifted to accommodate your sudden weight, you rather hoped you didn’t appear to be _cowering_.  That probably would have given her way too much satisfaction.  While you still held firmly to your conviction that you weren’t intimidated by anyone, you could not help but think that McGonagall had it out for you.  Maybe it was your absolute ineptitude in Transfiguration, or perhaps she thought less of you from that time she had to bodily drag you away from beating up another student.  Whether she thought you were a poor student, or just a trouble maker, the Head of Gryffindor House always seemed to be particularly hard on _you_.  Always choosing you to answer questions in class, even when you hadn’t raised your hand.  Making you the volunteer for the first attempt at a new spell, knowing damn well you’d never even get close.  And, it seemed, calling you out in the hallways when you weren’t even doing anything wrong.

“Well?  Cat got your tongue, Miss Goode?”  McGonagall’s face was stern as she approached, her hands propped rigidly on her hips as she stared down her nose at you.  She watched, unamused, as you forced yourself to straighten up, the gargoyle you’d been leaning against helping you keep your balance.  If you hadn’t already been so on edge when she snuck up on you like that, you were certain you’d never have reacted so pathetically (and, perhaps to her eyes, _guiltily_ ).  But the fact was that you _were_ on edge, and now your nerves were totally shot; your mouth felt dry, your skin felt tight, and you feared your face was brick red from the way it was tingling.  Your eyes prickled with tears that had been threatening to spill over all day, and you honestly feared that they were finally about make a break for it.  You were trying to swallow down the cotton in your throat, to try and explain yourself, when the door to the staffroom suddenly swung open.

“What _is_ all the noise about, Minerva?”

Relief flooded over you like a wave of cool water on a sweltering day.  Never in your young life had you been _so_ glad to see Professor Snape.  He appeared mildly annoyed, his eyes narrowed and his brows drawn together in an irritated scowl.  And while this wasn’t necessarily a new look for him, the fact that it was directed at _Professor McGonagall_ made it rather startling.  He didn’t even spare you a glance, his glower remaining squarely on his fellow Head of House, who, for her credit, didn’t even flinch at being on the receiving end of such a look.  Though, she did seem somewhat offended that _she_ was the one being accused of some wrongdoing, instead of _you_.

You had just drawn breath to try and speak up, but McGonagall beat you to it, her voice clipped and acerbic as she explained, “Severus.  I was just questioning Miss Goode as to why she was skulking outside of the staffroom during classroom hours.” 

Your bone dry throat finally found its voice at that little insult, your hackles rising and your face burning hot as ever.  “I was not-!”

“ _Skulking?_ ” Snape cut in with a sudden snort of laughter, and you whipped your head around to him, both in surprise at his outburst, and in a desperate attempt to catch another of his rare smiles.  This one was dripping with condescension however, as he waved his hand dismissively in McGonagall’s direction.  “I’ve never known a Hufflepuff to _skulk_ , Minerva.  I’m certain that whatever Miss Goode is doing here, there is a perfectly good explanation for it.”

Both of your professors turned their attention to you, now.  McGonagall looked dubious at best, a scowl marring her own face as if daring you to actually have said ‘perfectly good explanation’.  Snape, on the other hand, merely looked quizzical, if a bit expectant.  As if hoping you really _did_ have a decent reason for being there, because otherwise you’d make him look the fool in this situation.  And far be it from you to ever actively disappoint Snape again.  You locked eyes with McGonagall in an open act of defiance, which was probably _horribly_ ill-advised, as you extricated the note from Professor Sprout, holding it out to Snape.  McGonagall, briefest fury flashing in her eyes, reached for the note herself, but Snape snatched it out of your hand before she could so much as graze the paper. 

Shaking out the folded note, Snape made a bit of a show of holding it up and reading it carefully, his black eyes glinting with what looked suspiciously like triumph.  “Just as I suspected,” he confirmed silkily.  “Pomona sent Miss Goode here to deliver this note to _me_.”  Tucking the paper into an inner pocket of his bat-like robes, Snape took a step back against the door to the staff room, leaving ample room between himself and the doorframe.  “I was rather hoping to discuss the contents of said note with Miss Goode.  In _private_ of course, as it has to do with her confidential student records.”  He looked to you then, jerking his head to the side in a brisk command for you to enter.  You didn’t hesitate, not even looking back at McGonagall as you slipped past him through the door.  “Don’t you have a class starting soon, Minerva?”

You didn’t have to look back at McGonagall to know she was seething on the edge of apoplexy.  Especially when Snape didn’t even wait for her answer.  He merely shut the door in her face before turning to you, a smug look of satisfaction gracing his features.  It didn’t last long though.  In the beat of silence that followed, Snape seemed to appraise you and your appearance, and you had the horrible feeling that you must have looked terrible, if the way his smirk melted off of his face was any indication.  You knew there were dark circles forming under your hazel eyes, which were probably also red from how many times you’d been on the verge of sobbing in the last few hours.  You reached a trembling hand up to your own face, making a move as if to brush your hair away, but really feeling the feverish heat under your fingertips.  Your pale skin was probably blotchy and highly colored, and you must have looked a real mess.  Reaching back into his robes to retrieve the note from Sprout, he gave it another onceover, apparently reading in more detail this time, before murmuring, “Why don’t you have a seat over by the window.  I’ll join you in a moment.”

Nodding once, you spun stupidly in a circle, quickly taking in the appearance of the staffroom.  It was rather dark, the high windows not letting in much light as they faced the north side of the castle.  The furniture was dark as well, punctuated by a long, narrow table in the center of the room, lined with chairs on both sides.  Though there was the odd squashy armchair or loveseat surrounding the perimeter of the walls, along with a towering wardrobe by the door. 

You spotted Professor Trelawney in one of the aforementioned armchairs by the fire, but she appeared to be in some sort of deep trance… that, or she was napping with her eyes open.  Snape had gone off to a sideboard table near the fireplace at the far end of the room, and you made your way to the seats he’d indicated.  Set before one of the large windows was a small, round marble topped table, flanked on either side by two worn wood and leather chairs, and you nervously settled yourself into one of them, tucking your bag under your seat.  The table was already occupied by a magazine, and you gently shifted it to one side as you slid your student record across the table towards the other chair.  Leaning back into your own seat, you gazed listlessly out the window as you waited, leg bouncing and hands sweating.  The view from here was rather bland, and you found yourself staring absently into the vast expanse of trees that made up the Forbidden Forest, before you were shocked back to the present by the sound of porcelain clinking against marble.

“You look like you could use this,” Snape explained quietly, sliding a plain yellow and white teacup towards you, the steaming liquid smelling heavily of chamomile and lavender, a single sugar cube resting on the saucer like a whispered suggestion.  And you felt like crying again, but this time with relief.  All day you’d been walking a tightrope of emotion, ready to plummet at any moment into rage or fear or despair.  But this simple gesture felt like a lifeline, and you nodded your head in gratitude, as you couldn’t trust yourself to speak.  Sitting upright, you pulled the little saucer closer, taking up the sugar cube and plopping it into the tea before lightly swirling the cup to encourage it to dissolve.  The gentle motion stirred up the smattering of tealeaves from the bottom of the cup, and you spared a glance towards Trelawney. 

Snape must have caught your line of sight, as he snorted and rolled his eyes, before settling into his own chair, crossing his legs at the knee.  “Don’t mind her,” he assured you, shifting the magazine under your file.  “She’ll be out for another thirty minutes, at least.  Typical Tuesday for Sybill.” 

You hid your smile behind your teacup as you took a sip, and you found that you felt more relaxed than you had in… well, _days_.  Even as you watched Snape open up your student record, flipping through the pages and picking up a few small notes, you were suddenly imbued with a sense that things might actually turn out okay.  This complacency, however, was immediately replaced with suspicion as you stared down into your teacup.  It… didn’t _taste_ like he’d slipped you a calming draught, and the liquid certainly wasn’t the characteristic blue color.  But if it wasn’t a potion, then you weren’t entirely sure what to attribute your unexpected tranquility to… besides… just…

Being around him.

“It’s only tea, Miss Goode.”

You gasped and sat up rigidly, and though he wasn’t even looking at you, you had the presence of mind to look abashed.  “Y… Yes…  It’s very good.  Thank you, sir,” you mumbled quietly, taking a more confident swallow from the cup, before placing it back onto the saucer.  It _was_ quite good.  Floral and calming, reminding you of something your mother might make.  And thinking of your mother strengthened your resolve to get a damn grip on yourself. 

Checking to make sure Snape was still occupied with your file, you leaned back into your chair and rubbed your hands over your face.  Pressing your fingers against your eyes, you watched swirls of colors bloom behind your lids as you forced yourself to breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth, slowly and quietly.  You did this ten times, counting each breath in your head, trying not to think of anything at all except for your breathing.  Your mother had been encouraging you to meditate since you were very small, but you never seemed to remember to do it when you needed it most.  Usually you would just roll your eyes at her when she suggested it.  This moment was a rare occasion indeed.  But as you felt your heart finally start to calm, felt the skin under your palms begin to cool, you couldn’t help but admit that mother knew best.  

Sliding your hands back down into your lap, you looked up just in time to see Snape look away, and you felt your cheeks tint with embarrassment.  Snape spared you the indignity of trying to explain yourself, by diving right into the matter at hand.  You were grateful for how often he let your embarrassing behavior slide. 

“So,” Snape began coolly, leaning back into his own chair, hands folded in his lap.  Finally, his black eyes rose to meet yours, and you found yourself unperturbed to be under his intense regard; you were getting used to his intensity.  “Professor Sprout expressed that you were experiencing a bit of a dilemma in finding a career path.”  You nodded once, and he continued.  “You wish to pursue a career in potions, but don’t care to venture into capitalism?”  You cringe at the very suggestion, and he struggled to hide a smirk.  “Can’t say I blame you.”  He sat up a little straighter, leaning over your file once more, eyes roving over the notes within.  “Explain your predicament, then.  In your own words, please,” he commanded simply, and you felt your stomach drop.

Sighing through your nose, you had to pull your eyes away from his, instead focusing on your half empty cup of tea.  You knew you could be candid with him; since you’d arrived to the staffroom, he’d set up an environment that made you think he wasn’t going to judge you.  You wished he could just read your mind so you wouldn’t have to say it out loud.  You’d suspected he could do that for a few years now.  But apparently he only did it when it was convenient for _him_.

“There wasn’t a lot of literature for careers that focused on potions,” you explained, hoping that the lack of information provided would make up for your ignorance.  “All I saw were positions at shops that sold potions, and Healing.  Like you said, capitalism sounds horrible, and becoming a Healer is… unattainable.”  Your stomach felt a little queasy again, and you reached for your teacup, taking another soothing sip.  Staring down into the cooling tea, you sighed again.  “I want to help people,” you finally admitted, and it sounded stupid to your own ears, but still you persisted.  “I _know_ potions can help people.  But I don’t have the grades.  And I know working in an apothecary can get people the potions they need, but I can see that becoming stagnant for me quickly.”  You finally looked up at him, pleading in your voice.  “I don’t know what else I can do.”

Snape’s features were inscrutable as he leaned back in his armchair, regarding you thoughtfully.  You couldn’t keep looking at him for long, gaze falling down to his hands, then to your file, then to your tea.  You raised the cup and finished its contents, peering down at the sugary sludge of tealeaves left on the bottom.  Yep.  Sure looked like tea.  You placed the cup back on its saucer, fiddling with the handle a bit, when you realized he was probably doing that thing, where he was waiting for you to look at him before he began speaking.  You closed your eyes a moment, counted two breaths, before raising your eyes to meet his.  You’d been right.

“I can see now, why you weren’t sorted into Slytherin,” Snape began offhandedly, and you gave a little start at that.  You opened your mouth to question him, but he silenced you with a raised hand.  “That wasn’t an insult, Miss Goode.  I’ve always thought you would have done quite well in Slytherin, but as Professor Sprout likes to point out to me, your motivations are in a different place.  A Slytherin might like to aid in developing the next big breakthrough in potion making, in order to gain notoriety and acclaim.  You, on the other hand, would do it simply to help people.”  At your sustained look of skepticism, Snape rolled his eyes, relenting.  “I’m not saying that’s a _bad_ thing.  It was merely an observation.” 

You relaxed a little.  You supposed he had a point.  You were tempted to tell him what the Sorting Hat had told _you_ all those years ago, but it didn’t feel appropriate at the moment.  You simply nodded your assent to him, before leveling him with a hopeful look.  “So…?” you began, hoping he would take it from there.

Which of course, he did.  “So.  I will attribute your unawareness of magical occupations to your muggle upbringing.”  You pouted.  He ignored you.  “You don’t have to be a Healer in order to make significant advancements in the potions field.  Indeed, Healers themselves actually do very little in way of potion making.  Saint Mungo’s has entire departments devoted to the production of potions for its patients, as well as a division dedicated solely to the research and development of new potions for cures to magical ailments.” 

You immediately perked up at this.  Research and development?  You felt your pulse quicken, like you were on the verge some great discovery.  “And I… I don’t need to be a Healer to do those things?” you asked, almost breathless with anticipation.

Snape’s lips quirked upward at your sudden burst of enthusiasm, but he fought it down, as his next words weren’t exactly encouraging.  “At Saint Mungo’s, I believe you do need to be a qualified Healer to be in their research department.”  You sank back into your chair again, but before you could fully collapse, Snape had extracted the magazine from its place under your file, sliding it across the table to you.  “That being said, there _are_ potions research institutes that have less rigorous requirements.  There’s also the possibility of independent study, or finding an apprenticeship under a Potions Master, or becoming a teacher and doing your own exploration on the side.”

Sitting up cautiously, you glanced from him down to the magazine, before sliding it closer and lifting it up with both hands.  You realized now that it was a potions periodical, and it was opened up to an interview with a Potions Master, Damocles Belby, who was developing a potion to potentially cure Lycanthropy.  His research was in the very early stages, but he’d had some promising results so far.  The article was rather heavy handed about Belby’s need for funding and investors, but otherwise, the implications made your heart soar.  _Imagine!_   Imagine being able to develop a cure for something so dreadful.  It could potentially change the lives of so many disenfranchised people.  You got the impression that that sort of job didn’t exactly pay well, if the way Belby was begging for money was any indication.  But if one was driven by passion, over fortune… You wondered what House Belby had been in.

Snape was watching you with an amused quirk to his lips.  Your excitement must have been evident on your face, and you sheepishly closed the magazine before sliding it back onto the table.  “So… So what O.W.L.’s will I need to earn?  What would look best when applying at one of these institutions, or seeking an apprenticeship?”  At the arch of one heavy black brow, you had the terrible feeling that you should already know the answer to that.  Your eagerness withered.

“The simple answer to that question, is that you should try to earn as many O.W.L.’s as possible.”  You deflated further and turned your head towards the window, looking back out into the bleak forest.  Snape was kind enough not to admonish you for your childishness, though his words were rather severe when he spoke again.  “An Acceptable will do.  You don’t have to get an Outstanding in every subject, Miss Goode.  Just potions.  Which I can personally assure you, will not be an issue.”  Even with the harsh tone, your heart leapt at that.  You turned back to face him, apprehension still touching your features, but you offered an appreciative smile through it.  Snape, however, remained stern as he looked back down at your file.  “Your grades are good, overall.  Top of your year in Herbology and Potions.  High marks in Astronomy and Care of Magical Creatures.  Middle of the pack for History of Magic, Defense Against the Dark Arts and Divination.  You’re only falling behind in Charms and Transfiguration.”

“Which are _core classes_ ,” you sighed miserably.  But the intensity of the glare shot your way made you sober up immediately.  You sat up a little straighter, clutching the hem of your skirt with a white-knuckle grip of panic.  

“Indeed they are,” he confirmed, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.  “Which means you’re going to have to put in a hell of a lot of work in the next few weeks to get your abilities up to snuff.”  He flipped your folder shut, before placing his elbows against the table and lacing his fingers together, leaning in closer, making sure that you understood every syllable.  “Miss Goode.  You are an exceptional witch.  I _know_ you have the aptitude and tenacity to pull ahead in those classes.  And even if you have to use _spite_ as a motivator to hone your spell work into something passable, I would wholly encourage it.”  There was a pause, before he leaned back in his chair and leveled you with a sneer, that wasn’t really directed at you.  “I’ll tutor you _myself_ if only to prove Professor McGonagall’s shabby opinion of you wrong.”

You were speechless.  You weren’t sure anyone outside of Slytherin had ever received such high praise from Snape, and you were absolutely thunderstruck by his words.  You were also… also…

After a full day of attempting to make their daring escape, you finally felt liquid hot tears spill down your cheeks.  You didn’t even move to brush them away, simply tilted your head down so the fat droplets plopped onto your gray skirt.  Thankfully, you weren’t sobbing; your breath didn’t even so much as hic-up.  But you couldn’t stop the flow of gratitude from streaming down your face in warm rivulets.  You couldn’t remember the last time anyone had had so much confidence in you, had ever wanted you to succeed so vehemently.  Whenever that last was, it had probably been your mother who said it.  The silence that followed was heavy.  Awkward.  You didn’t want it to be awkward you wanted him to _know_ -

“Thank you, sir,” you gasped at your knees, finally lifting one arm to rub at your face, staining your sleeve with wet patches.  Snape was shifting uncomfortably, but his eyes were narrowed more in concern than annoyance.  You sniffed only once, swallowing down your tears before you nodded with conviction.  “I’ll do my best.”

“See that you do,” Snape instructed with a note of finality.  He began gathering up your student record, along with his periodical, and had just banished away the teacup when you realized that this meeting was over.  You followed suit, retrieving your bag from under your chair and slinging it over your neck.  Snape stood first, tucking the papers under his arm, and just as you stood to join him, your felt his heavy hand fall on to your shoulder.  You started slightly, looking from his hand, following up his arm, to his face, and you found a look of deepest gravity there.  You held your breath.

“Miss Goode.  Now is not the time to be getting… _distracted_ ,” Snape murmured cryptically.  “You need to concentrate on your studies, on earning these O.W.L.’s.  And it won’t benefit you to be preoccupied with… _extracurricular activities_.”  You blinked stupidly, unsure what he meant.  You were about to open your mouth to explain you weren’t _in_ any extracurricular clubs or societies, when he fixed you with a meaningful grimace, arching one of his dark brows in a way that suggested he didn’t want to spell this out for you. 

And then it hit you.

_Staffroom gossip._

You turned red immediately, looking away quickly as he patted your shoulder, grateful that you’d gotten it and spared you both the humiliation.  You cleared your throat and nodded your understanding, fiddling with the silk pouch of crystals that still hung from your bag, though it had long ago gone threadbare.  “R-Right,” you stuttered, unable to look him in the eye. 

And though your embarrassment weighed heavy in your stomach like a stone, you were also sort of… relieved.  You’d been looking for a good reason to… to call things off… with Lawrence.  All of the encouragement in the world still hadn’t convinced you that it would be a good idea, but to keep ignoring the situation would have been… willfully ignorant.  But damn, if Snape hadn’t just given you an excellent excuse.  Squeezing your eyes shut tightly, you nodded your head with conviction this time, convincing yourself that it was the right thing to do. 

“Right.  I understand.”  You were finally able to look back up at him, and were relieved to find that his face was just as indecipherable as ever.  “Th… Thank you, sir,” you said quietly, offering a small smile, which he did not return.  He merely nodded. 

“You’re welcome, Miss Goode,” he replied curtly, placing his hand on the small of your back to usher you towards the staffroom door.  This was the second time today that someone had touched you there, but this time it made your skin ripple with gooseflesh.  And though that sort of response to physical touch wasn’t unusual, the fact that it was also rather pleasant was… _alarming_.  Heat was making its way up your neck to your cheeks once more, and you were barely paying attention as Snape continued speaking.  “I meant what I said about tutoring you, if you need it.  If you find yourself at a loss in Transfiguration, don’t hesitate to come see me.  I _will_ be watching your grades.”

You were barely able to stutter out an uncouth “Uh-huh,” before he’d opened the staffroom door for you.  He was watching you closely, brows pressed together inquisitively at your sudden change in demeanor, and you quickly took a deep breath to try and pull yourself together.  “I mean, y-yes, sir.  Sorry I… I just have a lot to think about right now.  I will remember that, though.  Thank you again!”  You had said this all rather quickly, before dashing out of the staffroom.  You ignored the snickering gargoyles, not daring to look back at Snape, who you imagined standing at the door watching your fleeing back, probably thinking you were entirely mad.

Though you had been hasty to leave, you hadn’t be untruthful.  You certainly _did_ have a lot to think about now.  O.W.L.’s, McGonagall, Lawrence, _SnapeSnapeSnape_.  You rubbed your arms as you made your way to your common room, having absolutely no desire to go back to History of Magic for the remainder of the period.  Your skin still felt cool and sensitive, and you shivered again at the thought of his hand on your back.  Why in the world had that affected you so direly?  In fact the whole meeting had been… unreal.  Like a dream.  His kindness, his endearments, little gestures and words you’d never expected from him.  Tea, jokes, praise, advice.  It made you feel unbelievably warm, made you want to hold on to those moments like little souvenirs from a faraway place that no one else had ever seen.  For years now you’d observed the walls he hid himself behind.  The strict set of rules he lived his life by.  But with each passing moment, like the one you’d just shared, you couldn’t help but wonder if you were becoming the exception to his rule.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading. Comments are my lifeblood. And if you have any questions, feel free to ask!


	6. Wasting Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 6th year. A botched up trip to Hogsmeade finds you and Snape trapped by the rain in the Hog’s Head. You take the opportunity to to speak candidly with your professor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About a quarter of the way through writing this, my computer crashed with a Blue Screen of Death and I lost a great deal of material because my word processor’s auto-save was set to every 30 minutes. That’s why this chapter is pretty late, and why it’s maybe not my best work. It was pretty discouraging.
> 
> Also, there are a handful of cameos from various media I’m a fan of in this chapter. Let me know if you spot them!

You had emphatically told your friends that you were _not_ interested in going out to Hogsmeade this weekend.  You had your reasons; very good ones, in fact!  But none of your girlfriends were willing to hear of it.  ‘It’s the final trip of the year!  The last chance to have some fun before exams!  You can’t keep hiding in the dungeons Gwendolyn; you need to _get out_!’  Ugh.  You would have been much better off just _staying_ in the dungeons; your current surroundings were about as brightly lit anyway.

You had eventually submitted to the wheedling of your girlfriends, but you warned them that you _weren’t_ going to be happy about it.  Which was a mistake, because they did everything within their power to try and _force_ you to be happy.  They dragged you to each and every shop, made a reservation for the whole group at Madam Puddifoot’s for later in the afternoon, and insisted that you at least _try on_ a set of emerald green dress robes while in Gladrags.  The darkening clouds in the sky overhead reflected your own stormy mood.  All the while, you kept a defiant scowl firmly on your face (“Gwen, you’ve _really_ got to stop spending so much time down there.  You’re picking up his facial expressions.”).  And while you _had_ managed a bit of a smile inside of Honeydukes, your arms laden with a sack full of licorice wands, pepper imps and coconut ice, the moments between shops were spent constantly looking over your shoulder, keeping an eye out for those _very good reasons_ you had for not wanting to leave the castle. 

Joshua DeJarnette _really_ had it out for you this week.  You had successfully (and quite accidentally) made a fool of him in Defense Against the Dark Arts, when you’d been caught up in the chain of people passing a note from one side of the room to the other.  Professor Rakepick had noticed the note just as the folded square of paper had landed in front of you.  She had instructed you to stand up and read it out loud to the class, perhaps intending to teach you a lesson about breaking the rules.  However, the note had obviously not been meant for you.  In fact, it rapidly became clear that this was not meant to be read by _anyone_ , except for its intended.

Because it had been poetry.  _Love_ poetry.  _Written by DeJarnette_.  Its recipient, a Slytherin girl by the name of Erica Velazquez, had flushed dark red when you began reading, and you followed suit the further down the note you got.  Professor Rakepick, quite pink in the face herself, had stopped you about midway and snatched the piece of paper from your hands, saying she would handle it herself.  As you sat back down in your chair, you could feel seething hatred radiating towards you from the back row of desks.  DeJarnette and Velazquez had been held back after class, and by the grace of this alone were you able to escape before DeJarnette could seek retribution.  You had managed to avoid him for three days now, but your time was running short.  You were prepared for the fact you would have to see him in Charms the following week; at least Professor Flitwick wouldn’t allow any fighting in his classroom.  But you weren’t prepared for a possible ambush in Hogsmeade.

And speaking of ambushes, your _other_ reason for wanting to avoid Hogsmeade all together this weekend had become quite adept at the art.  For the last three semesters, Lawrence Hollingsworth had been cornering you at every available opportunity, to ask you what you were doing on any given night or afternoon or weekend or literally any time he could find an excuse to try and be alone with you.  Lawrence had been remarkably understanding last year, when you had told him that you weren’t interested in dating because you needed to concentrate on your O.W.L.’s.  He’d wholeheartedly agreed, had even volunteered to help you out with your Transfiguration and Charms, like a form of compensation for all the help you’d given him in Potions.  You’d accepted, and through your joint efforts of intensive study, you had gotten an Exceeds Expectations in Charms, letting you advance to the N.E.W.T. course, and had scraped by with an Acceptable in Transfiguration, which was all you really could have hoped for.

But now O.W.L.’s were over, and it would be another whole year before you’d have to take your N.E.W.T.’s.  Which apparently, to Lawrence, meant that you had plenty of time to consider dating him _now_.  It had become nightmarish, really.  You’d wanted so desperately to just hang on to your platonic friendship with him, but now he was becoming a real nuisance.  If you were alone, anywhere, for even a couple of minutes, he somehow always managed to turn up and find you.  It was innocent enough at first.  Sidling up to you in the library to do homework together?  Typical, even welcome.  Picking the spot across from you at the Hufflepuff table in the Great Hall during meals? Not unusual, though now it had become _every_ meal.  Plopping himself onto the couch beside you in the common room, even if someone else was already sitting there?  That’s when his advances started to get a little annoying.  But it had been when he was waiting for you outside of the girl’s lavatory one afternoon that you had to draw the line and take matters into your own hands.

That was when you started stealing into the Potions classroom in the evenings.  Snape had barely even questioned you when you showed up one night after dinner, practically begging him for a quiet place to do your homework.  And surprisingly (or maybe not at all surprising), he allowed it, letting you sequester one of the worktables for yourself after classes had ended for the day.  It was a perfect arrangement, really; the dungeon was always cool and quiet.  No one ever _voluntarily_ entered the Potions classroom if they didn’t have to.  And even if one of your oppressors found out where you were hiding, Snape was almost always there.  Aside from the protection this offered you from bullies and not-boyfriends, it also provided an endless font of academic tutelage.  If Snape was in a good mood (and he usually was, when classes were over, and it was just the two of you…) he was usually amenable to helping you with your studies.  Answering questions, giving advice on improving your spell work, even proofreading essays, if he didn’t have anything better to do.  And even if he wasn’t around to aid you, the fact that he still trusted you, alone in his classroom while he wasn’t there, spoke volumes of his confidence in you. 

But Snape wasn’t here to protect you from your tormentors now.  No, when you and your friends had exited Honeydukes, making your way up High Street to meet your reservations at Madam Puddifoot’s, you had seen them.  _Both_ of them.  DeJarnette and Velazquez where standing outside of Scrivenshaft’s; Velazquez admiring the peacock quills though the front window, holding on to her boyfriends arm, while DeJarnette was very obviously scanning the street, like he was looking for something, or someone, in particular.  And just as you were turning around to sneak away from your friends in the other direction, you saw Lawrence exit Zonkos, smiling and laughing, surrounded by his mates, but also distractedly skimming the crowds.  And you knew there would be no chance of just hiding amongst your girlfriends; you were about 5 inches taller than the rest of them after a nice summer growth spurt last year, your wild blonde hair making you stand out like a dandelion in a field of neatly trimmed grass.

In a fit of panic, you made a break for it.  Detaching yourself from your group of friends, you slinked (skulked!!) down the nearest side street, disappearing around the corner and hopefully out of view, praying that no one had spotted your daring escape.  You had _thought_ this was the street that lead to Madam Puddifoot’s, planning on just slipping into the little café and securing the table for you and your friends ahead of their arrival.  But your sense of direction must have been lost in your panic, because you found yourself instead in a dark, shadowy alley, surrounded by decrepit, boarded up buildings, a dubious looking potions shop, and a seedy bar and inn with a sign proudly displaying the bloody, severed head of a pig.  You had the presence of mind to at least be weary of your surroundings, fingering the hard edge of your wand through your bag.  You had been considering the merits of doubling back, searching the streets in hopes that your friends were still nearby, or your adversaries had moved along.   But a sudden rumble of thunder overhead had made your decision for you, and you scampered into the nearest doorway at the first thud of a rain drop onto your cheek.

And that is how you found yourself in the Hog’s Head, seated at a teeny, tiny table near the window, listening to the heavy rain pelt against the dingy glass.  Nursing a lukewarm butterbeer (which you had insisted you would rather just have straight from the bottle, no need for a mug, thanks), you were doing the only thing _worth_ doing in a dodgy bar on the wrong side of town with no one to talk to; drawing the natives.  Not in any extreme detail, of course.  You saved that for plants and mushrooms, typically.  But several pages of your black velvet sketch book were dedicated exclusively to tiny, cartoonish caricatures, usually of your professors, though you thought you might commit a page or two to the fascinating inhabitants of the Hog’s Head.  You’d already sketched out two; the gruff looking bartender, with his dirty rag and dirtier beer mugs, as well as a very skinny older man seated at the bar, who was sporting a pencil thin moustache and wearing a hideous plaid suit that looked to be intentionally splattered with mustard stains, a flimsy paper crown perched on his balding head.  Had you known you would be spending the remainder of your day in the presence of such royalty, you would have worn something nicer than denim shorts and a ringer tee.

This… certainly wasn’t how you’d expected your day to go.  It felt like coming to Hogsmeade had been a huge waste of time.  Granted, it could have gone much, much worse.  You could be stuck at _Madam Puddifoot’s_ , for one.  The place was lovely, no doubt, with its delicate little cakes and tea sandwiches.  But food that _small_ shouldn’t be so _expensive_.  And if you and your girls had all gotten stuck there from the rain, you would have been forced to keep buying things so as not to get kicked out.  There was also the chance that DeJarnette and his girlfriend may have shown up for a romantic afternoon.  Or Lawrence could have heard where you all had gone for lunch and came sprinting in.  Perhaps going down the wrong street had been a blessing in disguise.  And… well.  The Hog’s Head wasn’t so bad.  Kind of cozy, actually, with its dim lighting, small quarters, and quiet but curious clientele. 

Gee… Maybe you _were_ spending too much time in the dungeons.

You were contemplating who to commit to paper next.  There was the austere looking old witch in the blue gown taking up one of the nearby booths, her long silver hair pulled up into a severe bun, her red taloned fingers gleaming with great big rings.  She also had a massive wart right between her blue shadowed eyes, topping off her beak-like nose.  Then there was the pale young man seated in the corner booth, with the dark red curls and the steely grey-blue eyes.  Er… Eye.  He was actually fairly attractive for being in a place like this, but he was also dressed like a pirate, with an eyepatch and everything.  The only thing missing was the parrot, which he had apparently substituted for a raven instead. 

You were contemplating whether or not ravens could be considered seafaring birds, when a dark shadow crossed into your peripheral vision.  Starting with sudden fright, you saw a hooded figure standing outside the window, right beside where you were seated.  The distortion of the wet glass, as well as the shadow cast by the hood of the strangers traveling cloak, made it so that you could not distinguish any particular features.  But you got the distinct impression they were staring through the window at _you_.  You felt your mouth go dry, and just as the figure turned away, making its way toward the door, you plunged your hand into your bag and seized your wand.  You were absolutely certain it was DeJarnette, that he’d found you and was about to corner you in this nasty little bar where no one was going to come to your aid and everyone would turn a blind eye as he hexed you into oblivion and-

The door to the pub creaked opened, the sound of torrential rain pounding onto the cobble stones outside filling the small space with static noise.  You held your breath, wand at the ready to defend yourself, poised on the edge of your seat to spring into action at any moment.  But DeJarnette took his time coming in, slowly shutting the door behind him.  He then turned his back to you (was he _stupid_??) and made a show of dramatically whipping off his cloak, hanging the sopping raiment onto the coat rack by the door.  And your body crumpled with equal parts relief and aggravation.  Because it _wasn’t_ DeJarnette at all.

Snape looked a bit like a drowned rat after coming out of the rain.  Though his cloak was surely charmed against the elements, the hair around his face was stringy, clinging to his damp cheeks and forehead, his shirtsleeves and trousers drenched around the cuffs.  Under one arm he held a paper sack that looked on the verge of losing its structural integrity, the stamp on the side baring the name of the dingy potions shop you’d passed on the way in. 

As you slumped back into your chair, dropping your wand to the table with a clatter, you realized that Snape’s attention wasn’t actually on _you_.  Not that you were disappointed by that or anything but… you rather thought you had been the reason he’d come in.  But no, Snape was decidedly _not_ looking at you.  Instead he was facing the bar, with his jaw clenched and his eyes wary, like he was debating turning right back around and leaving.  _That_ in itself was disquieting, and you followed his line of sight to the bartender, who was glaring at Snape so lividly that you actually feared he was about to throw the Professor out.

But Snape would not be intimidated, it seemed, as he determinedly made his way over to your table and set his bag down with a thud, its contents rattling together with a tinkle of glass.  He then pulled out the empty chair and settled himself into it, though he still wasn’t looking at you.  His eyes were closed, as though he was attempting to avoid eye contact with anyone else in the bar.  You could see a vein pulsating in his temple.  When he finally spoke, his voice was dangerously quiet, low enough that you had to lean in closer to hear.  “Miss Goode, what in the world are you doing _here_ of all places?”

You openly gaped at him, your face hardening in indignation as you were affronted by his words.  “Me?  What about you! You scared the shi-” you paused, face going scarlet as he finally _did_ look up at you then, his signature brow arched, a reluctant smirk tugging at his lips.  You crossed your arms over your chest and sank further into your chair, looking quite put out.  “You _frightened_ me.  Lurking outside the window like that.”

“Was I _lurking_?” he asked innocently, finally straightening up as he pushed his lank hair out of his face, glancing about the bar, still with an air of trepidation.  For the first time since you’ve known him, he actually appeared genuinely anxious.  And that made _you_ feel anxious.  He was one of the most brilliant wizards you knew; what in the world did _he_ have to be frightened of?

“I’m sorry, did I say lurking?”  You sat up as well, trying to appear calmer than you felt as you placed your elbows against the table and leaned in closer.  “Because what I meant to say was _skulking_.” 

That did its job, as Snape buried is face in one hand, hiding his snort of laughter from both you and the other patrons.  But you felt the tension around him, around you both, begin to ease.  You settled your cheek into one of your hands, watching him fondly as he composed himself.  This was a rather unique situation for the pair of you.  While you’d spent many evenings in the Potions classroom these last few weeks, doing your homework and studying for exams, it had always held a purely academic atmosphere.  Sometimes you talked about things other than just school, but those times were rare, and ultimately came back around to your studies.  Right now though… It felt like two friends meeting for a drink.  You bit your bottom lip as you watched Snape school his features back into calm and collected impassivity, but glanced away quickly when he returned his eyes to you.

“Baseless accusation.  I was neither lurking, nor skulking.”  He’d settled back into his chair, one hand propped on his crossed knee while the other thrummed idly against the small wooden table top.  You arched a brow incredulously, which you were getting quite good at, as you were learning from the best.  But of course, he matched it and surpassed it, waving his hand dismissively in your direction.  “I was _observing_.”

You absolutely could not have stopped your grin if you tried.  This banter was so easy, felt so natural.  You could do this all day with him, really, and you found yourself really _enjoying_ it.  Shaking your head, you snatched up your butterbeer with your free hand before taking a swig.  “Is _that_ what they’re calling it these days?” you asked in mock surprise.  “I think Professor McGonagall might have something to say to the contrary.” 

Snape rolled his eyes, but you could tell he was struggling to fight down his own grin.  “I dare say Minerva has something contrary to say about _most_ things that I do.”  He glanced over your set up at the small table; your sketch book, your bag from Honeydukes, the lukewarm butterbeer you were twisting by the neck between your fingers.  “You still haven’t answered my question,” he reminded you, and you found yourself pouting moodily.

“And you haven’t answered mine!” you countered, looking dourly out the window as the rain continued to pour, your face still slumped against your hand.  “I’m allowed to be here.  No one ever told me that the Hog’s Head was off limits.”

Snape already looked fed up with your brooding.  If there was anything he hated, it was a petulant teenager, and you sure were acting the part right now.  “You aren’t wrong,” he agreed curtly.  “It isn’t off limits to students.  However, it’s not the sort of place I would advise _any_ student to visit _alone_.”  He met you with a warning look then, a reminder that he thought you really were a bit of a bubbleheaded Hufflepuff sometimes.

You wilted at that, glancing around at the odd assortment of people in the bar, who were all quietly minding their own business.  “No one’s been bothering me,” you assured him, hoping to put his mind at ease.  Though you did feel a curious sort of flutter at the fact that he seemed so concerned with your wellbeing.  Your eyes stuck on the bartender though, and you frowned to find he was still casting furtive glances towards the pair of you.  “Indeed, the only person anyone has been hostile towards is _you,_ sir.  Why does the barman look like he wants to throw you out?”

Snape started slightly at that, his eyes shifting to the bartender in question, before glancing away quickly, staring hard at his fingers as they continued to tap agitatedly at the table top.  You immediately regretted asking, because that anxious dread was creeping up your spine again, and you wondered if you had crossed a line.  Snape, for his credit, only appeared to be annoyed.  Though whether it was at your blatant snooping, or at the barman himself, you weren’t sure.  “Because he’s thrown me out before,” he admitted quietly, but his obvious effort to keep his voice down was lost on you.

“What?!” you squealed, eyes wide as you sat bolt upright, though the withering glare you received made you shrink back only slightly.  Clutching the edge of the table with both hands, you leaned in conspiratorially.  “Are you serious?” you whispered excitedly, and though his continued scowling should have set off warning bells, you were too eager for this potentially juicy story.  Because honestly, you couldn’t just casually mention that you’d been thrown out of an already pretty rough looking bar without giving the details.  “Are… Are you a rowdy drunk or something?”

Snape rolled his eyes so hard you feared that they might fall out of his head.  “ _Hardly_ ,” he spat contemptuously, but you weren’t to be deterred.  It was your turn to tap your fingers on the table expectantly, because god, he already knew so many dumb and embarrassing things about you.  You totally deserved some compensation, right? 

But it seemed you weren’t going to get much out of him.  “I was simply on the wrong staircase at the wrong time,” Snape explained blandly, scowl still etched onto his face.  “Though for whatever reason, some people seem to think that’s _trespassing_.”  He redirected his grimace from you towards the bar, where the barman suddenly seemed to remember some pressing matter that needed attending in the back room.  And as the sour old man bustled off, you watched Snape’s facade fall like a stone.  Gone was his signature glare of contempt, as it was replaced with an exhaustion so profound, he appeared to age ten years in two seconds.  He did not look back to you, instead letting his eyes fall to the sawdust strewn floor.  When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.  “It’s in the past.  Of no consequence now.”

You felt… awful.  Absolutely dreadful and gross for pressing him, when it was clear that this had not been a thing he had wanted to share.  Probably least of all with you.  While the story itself was dull, it was quite clear that there was more he was not telling you, and you had absolutely no interest in attempting to extract that information.  What right did you have to his secrets?  You pulled your hands away from the table, letting them fall to your lap as you shifted uneasily in your seat, trying to find the words to apologize for your obstinacy in the ensuing beat of silence.

“I pulled one of the short straws and landed chaperone duty for the Hogsmeade trip today,” Snape said suddenly, and your head snapped up.  He still wasn’t looking at you, his attention now turned towards the window where the rain continued to pound ceaselessly, and you wondered why he… 

Why was he giving you a pass for this?  He did this a lot, and you never understood why he was constantly allowing you to get away with being a complete and utter nit.  You really didn’t deserve to be spared like this, but here he was again, allowing your folly to slide.  And not only that, he’d caved to your request that he answer _your_ question first. 

Either oblivious to or willfully ignorant of the guilt roiling around inside of you, Snape proceeded with his explanation, his voice returning to its smooth, baritone drawl, devoid now of its earlier hollowness.  “I’d been in Prometheus Esoterica when I saw _you_ dash down this alleyway like a bat out of hell.”  That… caught your attention, and you felt your cheeks go pink as he finally met your eye.  “Once the rain started and you hadn’t turned back up on High Street, I came to investigate, and found you here.”  He made an all-encompassing gesture around the bar.  “This isn’t exactly the sort of place I’d expect a young lady to intentionally spend an afternoon.”

The pink tint to your cheeks only darkened, caught off guard once again that Snape apparently found your welfare a priority.  Surely you weren’t the only student who needed chaperoning on this trip, and yet, here he was.  Seizing your dusty butterbeer bottle, you picked at the edge of the paper label as you explained, “It certainly _wasn’t_ my intention to spend my afternoon here.  It wasn’t even my intention to come to Hogsmeade today.”  You glanced to him, before looking back around to the silent and motley crew of patrons assembled there, your face still flaming.  “Though it hasn’t been so bad…”

Snape appeared unconvinced, particularly incredulous that you could possibly be enjoying yourself in a dusty hovel like this.   His eyes searched yours, and you could feel those little insectile legs scraping on the inside of your skull as you suspected he was looking quite a bit deeper than your hazel irises.  And you let him, for now.  It was easier this way.  “Were you running from someone?” he queried knowingly, and you dropped your eyes to the table.  You’d let him in a little bit.  You trusted him.  But you didn’t want him to know…  

“Was it DeJarnette?”

You winced, closing your eyes as you nodded your head stiffly.  He probably didn’t even need to see inside of your head to guess that.  All these years you had kept your silent word to him, that you’d never intentionally engage yourself with DeJarnette’s bullying.  But any time you were still somehow caught up with the boy, it made you feel fresh guilt all over again.  Like it was somehow your fault that the bastard wouldn’t leave you alone.  But then again, it was unfair to place all of the blame on DeJarnette; he hadn’t been the only one you had been running from. 

“Among others…” you mumbled miserably, absently using your short nails to rip off strips of sodden paper from the bottle’s label.  There was a beat of silence then, filled only by the pattering of rain outside, the quiet pops from the fire place, the sound of glasses tapping against wooden table tops.

“I could talk to him, you know,” Snape offered after some time, and you smiled wanly at the suggestion.  Hadn’t Snape been the one to tell you that just talking to DeJarnette wasn’t going to do much?  That the boy was so ingrained with his prejudices that it was simply easier to accept that you had made an enemy?  Maybe Snape was just feeling sorry for you.  Making the offer as an empty gesture to absolve you of the responsibility of having to deal with this mess yourself. 

Sighing around your smile, you shook your head placidly.  “I’d really rather you didn’t.”  You set the bottle back down on the table, pushing it away from you as you felt your fidgeting was a dead giveaway for how bothered you really felt.  “I didn’t do anything.  Not on purpose.  And he’s got to know that.  He’ll leave me alone if I just ignore him for long enough.”  Surely Snape was aware of what had happened; he was DeJarnette’s Head of House, after all.

Snape looked a little uncertain, like he had something he wanted to say in opposition to that line of thinking.  But he merely nodded once.  “Fair enough…” came the quiet reply, and you fell into silence once more.  It wasn’t a comfortable silence though.  Not for you.  Snape had returned his attention to the deluge outside, and you found yourself counting the buttons on his coat as your brain buzzed with anticipation.  You were alone with him, in a quiet bar, with no one to eavesdrop, and especially no school work to use as an excuse to delay.  If you couldn’t ask him now, when could you ever? 

“Professor?” you started slowly, folding your forearms onto the table, glancing up just long enough to make sure you had his attention, before pressing on.  “May I ask you a question?”  Your heart thudded in your throat; you needed to tread carefully if you wanted to get the answers you sought.

But Snape already looked suspicious.  “How very rare for you to ask _permission_ first,” he quipped, and you had to drop your head onto your arms to hide your chagrin.  Damn it!  Looks like remembering your manners was another dead giveaway.  “That simply alludes to the weight of the question.  You may ask it, but that doesn’t mean I’ll answer.”  Peeking back up from your arms, he was regarding you with interest, but still present was the caution he’d entered the bar with in the first place.

“It’s nothing _that_ bad,” you promised, wincing a little at how eager you sounded.  “I just mean it’s… it’s…”  You closed your eyes, counting a few breaths as you compiled words into thoughts, and thoughts into meaning.  _Get it together, Gwen_.  “Last year, you told me I would have made a good Slytherin.”

This was met with silence, but you remembered his conditions quickly this time, as you opened your eyes and peered up to meet his.  He nodded his appreciation to your attentiveness, his stiff posture relaxing slightly at your seemingly innocent change of subject.  “Indeed, I did.  I still think that, sometimes.”

You smiled slightly at that, relaxing a little yourself as you leaned onto the table.  “The Sorting Hat said something similar.  I was a Hatstall, you know.”  It would have been mortifying if it hadn’t been so _frustrating_.  While sorting typically took less than a minute, you had been up there for a full six.  And you hadn’t even been _arguing_ with the Hat.  It had been arguing with _itself_ , deliberating all of your strengths and weaknesses and attributes and _blah blah blah_.  You didn’t know anything about any of the houses, except from the Hat’s song a few minutes prior.  You had no preference, and the Hat didn’t know what to do with you.

Snape drew his brows together, as if wracking his brain to remember the incident, but recognition appeared on his face quickly, as Hatstalls weren’t exactly a common occurrence.  “I do recall there being a… delay in sorting, a few years ago.  I didn’t realize it had been you.”  He seemed to ponder this a moment, before asking, “How did it come to its conclusion?”

Your smile grew sheepish as you shrugged a shoulder.  “I remember vaguely thinking that I liked the color yellow more than I liked green, and I guess that was as good a reason as any.”  Snape finally stopped drumming his fingers on the table, instead lifting that hand to his face and pinching the bridge of his nose.  You stifled your laughter behind a poorly executed cough, and wiped away your smile with the back of your hand, though it still tugged stubbornly at the corners of your lips.  “But before it came to that brilliant decision, it had waffled back and forth a lot between Slytherin and Hufflepuff.  And I was just wondering… if…” 

This time, your smile did fall off of your face, and it seemed to impress upon Snape once again, how heavily this question weighed to you.  His hand slid back down to the table, his face impassive as he waited for you to gather your words, which you finally managed to articulate.

“Would things have been different, if I had been sorted into Slytherin?” you asked finally, your shoulders sagging even as you felt the weight lifted off of them.  “I mean… would people like… like DeJarnette, still treat me like garbage if I’d been sorted into their house?”  You couldn’t bear to look at Snape, your eyes planted firmly on a spot just below his chin as words just kept rushing out of you.  “The Hat was conflicted about putting me in Slytherin because of my… my blood status.”  Your cheek twitched as you said the words; you realized now that the Hat had given you the first indication that blood status actually _meant_ anything to anyone.  You wilted further as you closed your eyes, a knot forming in your throat as you took a calculated risk with your next question.  “Can half-bloods even make it into Slytherin?” 

The silence that followed was tense, anticipation thick like the smell of ozone before a lightning strike.  You knew you should look at him.  You knew he wouldn’t answer until you did.  But you were just so terrified that you’d crossed a line… Then again, he had made his terms clear; he’d permitted you to ask your questions, and he’d acquiesced on the condition that you understood that he didn’t have to answer any of them.  And if you had toed the line, he could just get up and leave.  Nothing was stopping him ( _except, perhaps, his concern for your safety…_ ), but he was still here… so…

You were surprised to find something that looked dangerously close to _empathy_ in the lines of his face.  His expression was typical; dark brows pressed together, lips downturned, but there was an unmistakable softness around his eyes that you’d seen on occasion before.  You held his gaze, your skin tingling with heat under his intense regard. 

There was a pause as Snape considered you, seeming to sort through your questions before picking out the first point he wished to make.  “In your case, it’s very likely that your actual blood status had nothing to do with the Sorting Hat’s indecision.  It more likely was a product of the environment in which you were raised.”  You pouted, not understanding, and you felt an urge to defend yourself and your mother once again, but Snape silenced you with a placating gesture.  “Slytherin is a house that values _tradition_.  Traditions that are most staunchly upheld by pure-bloods and old wizarding families.  I think I remember you saying yourself that you were never raised with any such traditions, because you were brought up by your muggle mother.”  The smallest of smirks graced his lips as he added, “If you had been sorted into Slytherin without any knowledge of the customs of the wizarding world, you would have been absolutely miserable by the time you shattered your ink bottles in your first year.”

You couldn’t help but smile in return.  That was an excellent point, you realized, and actually made quite a bit of sense.  Your ignorance was already under fire.  It would have been so much worse had you been sorted into Slytherin, which was probably the actual reason why the Hat made its ultimate verdict.  “So, there have been half-bloods in Slytherin, then?” you asked, forging ahead as you were quite determined to get the answers to all of your questions.

There was another pregnant pause as Snape deliberated, his eyes searching yours, but without the mind beetles this time.  “Slytherin _does_ accept half-bloods, from time to time,” he answered finally, his words measured, carefully chosen, and you found yourself hanging on to every single one of them.  “And since they are typically descendants of at least one reputable family line, they’re usually treated with the same respect expected of their pure-blood peers.  However,” he’d leaned forward on this word deliberately, as you had just opened your mouth to protest.  “Half-bloods may still receive their fair share of ridicule, though it’s usually disguised as ‘friendly teasing.’  Half-bloods also have to do more and work harder to prove themselves worthy of being there.  It’s often thankless, and can be very lonely for them.”

Your eyes fell away from his as you began fidgeting with the paper scraps of your butterbeer label.  As you mulled over his words, you got a very distinct impression from them.  One you had suspected for… years.  Now was your chance to ask, and you threw caution to the wind as you did just that. 

“You… sound like you’re speaking from experience,” you whispered, surprised by how neutral you managed to keep your tone, despite your utter terror.  Your heart was really pounding now, and you could hear the blood rushing in your ears as your head spun a little.  Oh, why had you said that?  Don’t press your luck.  He’d told you years ago not to press your-

“I am,” he confirmed tonelessly, and you felt your stomach drop.  His face had gone hard again, the sympathy you had seen before having vanished, replaced instead with guarded impassivity.  That wasn’t what you’d wanted.  You hoped he would open up a little, not close you off.  You just wanted to know, to finally confirm, that you were the same, that you had this in common.  Your mouth felt dry as you tried to keep your tenuous grip on your emotions, and your brain went into overdrive to try and find an excuse, an apology that would never even come close to explaining how terribly you felt. 

“I’m telling you this in confidence, Miss Goode.  And I hope you appreciate the gravity of that,” came his cool assertion, and your mind screeched to a halt.  Your head was filled with the sound of your throbbing heart and the driving rain on the window pane, but you kept your eyes affixed to his as he spoke.  “I trust that nothing you and I have spoken of will leave this tavern?”

“No,” you whispered emphatically, shaking your head so your hair bounced around your face.  “No, sir.  Of course not.”  You stared directly into his eyes then, hoping, praying, that he would look inside and see exactly where your devotion lay.  But you didn’t feel the tell-tale beetles scurrying around in your head.  He simply nodded and accepted your word.  And you felt that this was the first time he’d ever accepted anything from you without question.  You felt so overwhelmed with contradicting feelings that all you could do was slump back into your chair and watch him as he turned towards the window.

“I don’t think this rain is going to let up,” he said conversationally, and you were relieved that he had chosen to end the conversation for you.  And you also had to agree; it really looked miserable out there.  You could barely see High Street through the grayish haze of falling water, but you could just make out darkened figures dashing past the alleyway entrance.  Students, you imagined, with their robes hiked up above their heads, making a mad dash for the castle as the allotted Hogsmeade time wound down, rain be damned.  But of course, you hadn’t worn any robes today.  You looked down at your white T-shirt and shorts, and realized suddenly how exposed you were. 

And Snape seemed to notice too, appearing quite disgruntled by your choice of attire.  You crossed your arms over your chest self-consciously and pouted.  “It had been sunny when we _arrived_ ,” you disputed, and Snape just rolled his eyes as he stood.  Looks like you didn’t have a choice.  You scrambled to shove your wand and your sketchbook into your satchel as you followed suit.

“You carry the bags,” he commanded, leaving no chance for you to reprove as he strode across the bar towards the front door.  You hastily tossed a few Knuts and a Sickle onto the table before doing as you were told.  Scooping your Honeyduke’s bag into one arm, and carefully balancing Snape’s bag from the potions shop in the other, you strode over to where he stood, looking quite put out as you watched him shake out his traveling cloak. 

In a billowing whip of black fabric, the heavy material was suddenly draped over your shoulders, and his fingers brushed your neck as he secured the silver fastening under your chin.  You didn’t move a muscle as you stared down at his hands, stunned by their proximity, and further perplexed by this unexpectedly kind gesture.  He made sure the cloak draped over your arms to protect the bags, and he seemed to consider pulling the hood up over your head, but ultimately decided you had too much hair for that to be effective. 

Slipping his wand out from his sleeve, he opened the door leading out of the bar, and the sound of pounding rain was so thunderous that you didn’t quite catch the incantation he cast.  But you _were_ impressed by the transparent blue barrier held aloft by the tip of his wand.  You’d always heard that umbrella charms were _en vogue_ over in the States, and wondered why they weren’t more popular in England.  They were so much more convenient, and considerably prettier.  Exasperated by your sudden fascination with what he surely considered run-of-the-mill magic, Snape threw an arm over your shoulders to guide you under the canopy before stepping out into the rain.  The bar door clanged shut behind you, and you were both enveloped by deafening sound and permeating darkness. 

Snape kept his arm wrapped tight around your shoulders, holding you close to his side in order to keep you under the shield of his spell.  Together, you made your way down the alley towards High Street, and then the castle.  And you were immeasurably grateful for the pounding rain and the darkening sky closing in around you.  They hid your movement as you leaned further into his touch, on the pretense of wanting to keep dry from the rain.  They guarded you as you surreptitiously brushed your nose over the shoulder of the cloak draped around you, inhaling the damp smell of rain mixed with the lingering cling of fireplace smoke and medicinal herbs.  And they drowned out the thundering of your heart as you savored the weight of his hand on your arm, his cloak on your shoulders, the nearness of him.  You had finally gained a great measure of his trust, an endeavor that many might have considered a waste of time.  But maybe it had been worth it, for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love comments 👀 and I love you for reading 💖


	7. Sunrise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 7th year. You receive a letter over the summer that could dictate the course of your future, so of course, the first thing you do is discuss your options with your favorite professor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all I am so sorry for how long this took. I had to take a hiatus for personal reasons, but we are back in action.
> 
> Also, this is is a bit of a transitional chapter, hence the shorter length. 7th year is when things start getting intense, and will also be the first deviation from my 1-chapter-per-year format. 7th year will have multiple chapters.

This couldn’t wait any longer.

You had been in this position before; standing in front of the locked door of the potions classroom, first thing in the morning on your first day of school.  But instead of patiently waiting for your professor to show up as you had done all those years ago, you were pacing the dungeon floor before the ancient wood panel, trying to work the nervous energy out of your system.  You would occasionally glance at the watch you had borrowed from one of your girlfriends, waiting until you felt it would be appropriate to knock.  The sun had barely risen, after all.  But you just couldn’t _stand it_.

You had nearly accosted Professor Snape after the Welcoming Feast last night, but had managed to restrain yourself.  _Barely_.  The rest of your evening had been spent tossing and turning in your four-poster, burning questions and desires turning round and round in your head like a carrousel of anxiety.  The second the alarm on your borrowed watch had gone off at six o’clock, you were up like a shot.  You forced yourself to dress carefully, to go down to the lavatory and brush your teeth and wash your face.  But that was the extent of your preparation before you grabbed your school bag and dashed down to the dungeons. 

He was probably up already.  Not that he struck you as an early riser; indeed, the man constantly appeared to be in desperate need of a good night’s sleep.  But he also seemed the type who would wake up early simply to get a head start on getting the day over with.  Sort of like how you felt right now.  You had been anticipating this moment for almost three weeks, and the tension only mounted the longer you waited.  And you didn’t want to wait any more.  Not when this was _finally_ within your grasp.

You had just made the decision that it was time to knock, when you heard the rattle of the door lock.  Freezing midway through a turn in your pacing, the classroom door finally flew open and you were face to face with a very tired and disgruntled looking Professor Snape.  His footsteps stuttered to a halt at the sight of you standing there alone in the dungeon hallway, and his annoyed expression faltered to concern for a brief moment as he took in your disheveled appearance.  There was a beat of silence then, as you both simply looked at each other.  It seemed as though you had lost your voice, suddenly…

“Miss Goode,” Snape greeted you slowly, carefully, like one might croon to a cornered animal.  “It’s… rather early.  Not even seven o’clock yet.  Are you quite alright?”  And you realized that how fretful you felt on the inside, must have been reflected on the outside.  You were sure there were dark smudges under your eyes ( _like his_ ) and you were certain your hair was a flaxen mess of out-of-control curls.  Your fingers fidgeted with the pouch of crystals that still hung from your satchel, a nervous gesture you’d never grown out of, even now at the age of seventeen. 

“Can we talk?” you asked abruptly, completely ignoring his inquiry to your wellbeing, wincing at the hint of desperation that laced your newly regained voice.  But you didn’t really care, right now, because you _were_ desperate.  _Three weeks!_   “P-Please… Sir?”

Snape considered you and your request, appearing much more awake and alert now as he looked you over.  With the barest hint of wariness gracing the lines of his face, he stood aside in the doorway to let you through, and you visibly relaxed as he accepted your request.  God, _finally_.  You nodded your thanks as you slipped past him.  You didn’t wait while he shut the classroom door again, instead striding purposefully into his office, where you summoned the worn, brown leather chair you had become so fond of over the years. 

You were already rummaging through your school bag when Snape arrived, and he seemed momentarily taken aback to see you already settled into his spare office chair.  Though whether he was surprised you knew how to summon it, or was impressed that you managed to summon it at all, given your track record with charms… he spared you the indignity of distinguishing which.  Taking a seat himself, he watched you expectantly, his fingers laced together on his desk as you continued to search the depths of your bag.

The first thing you extracted was a bundle of red pens, and you paused your frantic hunt as you stared down at them, rolling them slowly against your palm.  This was it.  This would be the last time you gave him this routine gift, this symbol of the beginning of your unlikely friendship.  Was _this_ the beginning of the end?  Would you ever see him again after you graduated from Hogwarts?  Your chest felt tight, and you had to force yourself to move, to speak, because he was watching you so closely.  You didn’t look him in the eye as you gently placed the bundle onto the edge of his desk.

“I promise, I didn’t force my way into your office just to give you these,” you assured him with a shaky laugh.  You glanced up long enough to watch him arch a brow, and you managed a wobbly smile as he took up the gift with silent acceptance.  Returning your attention back to your bag, you really had to swallow down your roiling emotions now, as your fingers brushed the real reason you were here. 

The envelope was frayed and torn along the edges, the ink on the front displaying your Enfield address was smudged, and the emerald green wax seal on the back was cracked and chipping.  You’d handled it more than was strictly necessary, but you absolutely could not help it if you’d tried, which to be fair, you hadn’t.  You’d read it several times a day since you’d received it nearly a month ago, just to constantly reaffirm its reality; that it was a real thing that you had received, and not a figment of your fantasies.  You were almost reluctant to allow it to leave your hands now.  But while its physical weight could confirm its reality, only Snape would be able to verify its authenticity. 

Your hands trembled as you placed the letter on Snape’s desk, sliding it towards him before hesitantly pulling your hand away from it.  “I received that over the summer,” you explained, your voice shaking as minutely as your hands.  “I’d… I’d like for…” you cleared your throat as your voice cracked, wanting to close your eyes to hide your shame, but refusing to take your eyes off of the envelope.  “I wanted you to read it.  I just want to know if it’s… legit?”

Snape appeared marginally confused as he leaned forward, taking the envelope between his fingers and pulling it toward him.  Between the early hour and your solemnity, you couldn’t blame him for the bewilderment.  But he also looked curious, slowly observing the worn down paper and smeared ink, turning the envelope over in his hands.  It was only when he spotted the wax seal that he betrayed any sort of emotion, both of his eyebrows lifting in surprise.  You felt your heartbeat quicken as he hastened to extract the letter.  Four smaller slips of paper flopped out onto his desk, two pink and two green, made of heavier cardstock than the letter, and Snape’s shock only intensified as his mouth fell open slightly.  You were literally on the edge of your seat as he finally unfolded the letter.

You knew the whole thing by heart at this point, and you watched with bated breath as he finally began to read.

_Dear Miss Gwendolyn Goode,_

_Allow me first to congratulate you on being Hogwarts next rising star in the field of potions.  I have it on good authority that you are well on your way towards surpassing your predecessors, having received the third highest O.W.L. in the subject in the last century of Hogwarts history.  At this rate, there’s a chance you’ll pass your own professor in N.E.W.T.’s! (Though I bet he won’t admit it!)_

_I’m always on the lookout for up and coming young minds, and would like to extend my personal invitation for you to attend the next annual gathering of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers.  Anybody who’s anybody in the field will be there, and it could be a perfect opportunity for you to make connections and help you find your way once you graduate._

_It’s a two day event set to take place next March at The Atticus Hotel in London; the days of which are filled with lectures and presentations about the newest potion advancements, but it’s at the after parties where the real fun takes place.  I’ve enclosed two passes, as well as two tickets to my own personal little soirée to take place on Saturday evening._

_Do try to talk your parents, as well as your professors, into allowing you to attend.  The second pass and ticket is for your chaperone.  If you require assistance, I would be happy to write to any of them on your behalf.  Build up a good résumé over the next 7 months, and you may very well find your future at this event.  I’m looking forward to finally getting to meet you.  Feel free to write back at this address if you have any concerns._

_Happy Brewing!_

_Professor H. E. F. Slughorn_

Your fingers danced over the crystal pouch, the silk fabric worn and pilled from years of handling.  Amethyst for protection.  Citrine for success.  Agate for anxiety.  You didn’t know if any of that was accurate but you wanted to pretend that it was right now.  You were counting your breaths as you numbly watched Snape read the letter a second time, before lifting the four tickets and scrutinizing them closely.  Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he slipped everything back into the worn envelope, before folding his hands atop his desk.  His face betrayed nothing.  You couldn’t _breathe_.

“I believe congratulations are in order,” he offered with a smirk.

Your entire body lurched, flopping bonelessly against the leather armchair as you stared at your professor in utter disbelief.  “It’s real?” you croaked, feeling stupid and unable to process.  “It’s not… not a prank or something?”  For weeks you had feared that it wasn’t real.  That you’d been had.  That some old codger was pulling your leg and was having a grand old laugh at your expense.  You’d never once heard of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers.  It sounded made up.  So did the name ‘Slughorn’ for that matter.  But then again most things in the wizarding world sounded made up.  

Snape almost looked sympathetic as you voiced your incredulity, but he was quick to assuage your fears.  “Horace Slughorn was the Potions Master here at Hogwarts before I was,” he explained easily, smoothing his thumb over the chipped wax seal on the back of the envelope.  “And I know quite factually that he’s on the membership board for the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers.  It is indeed ‘legit’ as you put it.  _And_ quite an honor.”

You were on the verge of swooning.  You’d only ever fainted once in your life, when you were required to have blood drawn for a medical examination when you were ten.  The fuzzy, cottony feeling in your head at this very moment reminded you of that unfortunate event, and you curled forward, placing your face in your hands and your elbows upon your knees.  It was real.  _Real!_   Your entire future was contained in a single parchment envelope, was stamped onto green and pink tickets, was waiting for you in a hotel in London.  You felt warm droplets slip between your fingers as your shoulders began to tremble with the implications of all this.  Every fear and doubt you’d ever had about your future was bubbling to the surface, but now you had something you hadn’t possessed before; _opportunity_.  The potential for the rest of your life had been delivered by owl right to your doorstep.

“Keep it together, Miss Goode,” came a deep, soothing voice, from oh, so far away.  You remembered then, that you were sitting in your Professor’s office, and he’d been quiet for an awfully long time until now.  Underneath the fear and the dread and the utter elation was a swell of deep affection for this man.  He’d let your high degree of sensitivity, that is to say, your penchant for crying at the drop of a hat, slide on multiple occasions.  Today would be no different, it seemed, and you were grateful. You quickly wiped your face with your sleeve as you raised your head, and you could hear the blood physically rush past your ears.  When your eyes focused, Snape was still there, watching you patiently, his eyes creased with concern, but his voice was firm as he addressed you.  “There’s a lot to unpack here,” he explained, tapping his fingers against the envelope.  “I assume you wish to attend?”

The unexpected burst of giggles that escaped you seem to catch you both off guard.  You were such a mess, unsure of whether to laugh or cry, but your addled brain had clearly decided on both.  “Of course!” you confirmed, wiping a fresh round of tears from your cheeks as you nodded eagerly. 

Snape still seemed wary of your emotional outbursts, but the corner of his lips quirked into a reluctant grin.  “Good girl,” he murmured, and you felt your face flush a little hotter than it already was.  You tried to get a hold of yourself, counting your breaths, rubbing your face, trying to get some feeling back into it besides just the heat.  “Have you received permission from your mother to do so?” he questioned, and that finally got you to sober up.  Snape was all business, and the tone of his voice alone was grounding.  The more he spoke, the clearer you felt.

Nodding more slowly, you finally settled your hands into your lap, feeling that you had at least schooled your features into something passing for ‘calm and collected’.  “Yes” you confirmed, remembering how tightly your mother had hugged you as she’d read the letter over your shoulder.  While you had been dumbfounded, your mother had been ecstatic.  She’d never had any doubts as to whether the invitation was real or not, and she’d encouraged you seize the chance that fate or the universe or whatever had offered up to you.

At Snape’s continued silence, and the slow creeping of one of his eyebrows, you were a little unsure of the subtext you were supposed to be receiving.  Realization only struck once Snape rolled his eyes and he waved his hand in an expectant turning motion for you to continue.  “Oh!  I can… get her to write a letter?  To… To Professor Sprout?” you ventured, but he waved his hand one more time, and you wracked your brain.  “And… Dumbledore?”  Snape nodded and pointed his finger at you in a gesture that said ‘bingo’.

“I think that would be wise, yes,” Snape agreed, as if you had come up with the idea all by yourself.  Your turn to roll your eyes in exasperation, but his teasing was welcome at this point.  It was a familiar landmark in unknown terrain.  He pressed on.  “You must be 17 by now, which makes you as good as an adult in the eyes of the Ministry.  But since this will be taking place during the school year, and you’ll likely need to take time off to attend, you’ll also need to procure a chaperone to go with you.  Perhaps your mother?”

Your mouth fell open at this.  You knew you were more or less a legal adult now.  You’d actually be 18 in December, which would make you an adult by muggle standards as well.  And while Slughorn’s letter and the extra passes had clearly indicated that you would certainly be traveling with a chaperone… never once had you considered bringing your _mother_.  And you wondered if maybe she _should_ have been your first choice, as opposed to… 

You hoped that the redness burning on your cheeks could be taken as the lingering effect of your earlier tears.  Twisting the folds of your skirt between your fingers, you had to look away from him as you stuttered, “I… I was rather hoping that… y…you…”  You couldn’t finish the thought out loud.  Snape had been the _only_ option to spring to mind when you’d received the letter.  It seemed so obvious then.  He’d been your guiding light every step of the way before now; why wouldn’t he accompany you on the next leg of the journey?

There was a lull of silence then, where you shifted uncomfortably in your chair, hoping he wasn’t waiting for you to look up at him.  You were already humiliated, you didn’t need to face his contemptuous gaze as well.  But when he finally spoke, his voice was neither contemptuous nor mocking.  It was mostly unsure.  As if he found your suggestion rather dubious.  “Me?”

At least he wasn’t outright rejecting the idea.  Swallowing hard, you spared him a quick glance before shrugging your shoulder in a poor charade of indifference.  “Is that alright?” you asked, your voice cracking again, and you closed your eyes with a wince. 

Silence again, and this time you did manage to peer up at him, prying your eyes open in hopes of gauging his reaction.  And you were surprised to find him considering you quite seriously, his bottom lip pinched between his thumb and forefinger, a gesture you had observed often when he appeared to be in deep thought.  And that made your heart thud nervously.  What was he extrapolating from your apparent _desire for him_ … to, uh, be your chaperone?  It wasn’t until this moment that you realized that your suggestion could have been misconstrued as something verging on inappropriate.  You were drawing breath to launch into an explanation of your innocent intent, when his hand flicked away from his mouth, his palm raised to the ceiling in an act of nonchalance.

“I suppose it does make sense for a master to attend with his apprentice.”

Your mind came screeching to a halt as you stared at him.  Breathing, blinking, all secondary biological functions now as your brain used all of its power in an attempt to process his words into meaning.  “A… Apprentice?” you stuttered dumbly, as though it were some foreign word you only vaguely knew the definition of.

“Certainly,” he confirmed coolly, the barest hint of a grin on his thin mouth.  He spoke casually, as if you were merely discussing routine homework and not the potential course of your entire career.  “An apprenticeship is exactly what you need to bulk up that résumé.  Most don’t apprentice under a Potion’s Master until after they’ve graduated.  It would help you stand out from the pack.”

You were shaking your head in disbelief, still unsure if your body had resumed its natural functions yet.  You could barely feel your chest rising and falling.  “You want me to be your…” You swallowed hard, throat clicking against your dry tongue.  You drew your brows together in bewilderment.  “I didn’t… didn’t know you took on apprentices,” you stated frankly.  In all your time here at Hogwarts, and indeed, all the time you’d spent in the dungeons, you’d never once seen another student act as apprentice under Snape.  It was something you never considered before, because you thought it was something he never did.

At that, he almost looked embarrassed, like he’d hoped you’d overlook that tiny detail.  You’d never seen color reach those high, pallid cheeks before.  “Well, to be fair, I don’t,” he admitted ruefully, his eyes sliding away from yours.  “Truthfully, no one has been up to my standards before now.”

 _Before you_.

Your lashes fluttered, and you could feel fresh, hot tears clinging to them.  This was too much.  This was all too much to take in right now.  You’d been on edge for three weeks already.  Now that everything was coming to fruition, you were being handed more than you ever thought possible.  More than you thought you deserved.  And clearly more than your exhausted emotional state could handle.  You pressed one hand over your eyes in an attempt to shield yourself from him, both physically, and mentally.  You didn’t want him peeking into your head right this moment.  This went far beyond tutoring or proofreading essays.  He’d been invested in your future since fifth year, but you never once imagined that he would willingly give you this gift, this advantage, over everyone else.  Was it your raw talent?  You eagerness to advance in the field in order to help others?  Or was this the result of the rapport that you had been building for nearly seven years? 

“Stay with me, Miss Goode,” came the warm wash of soothing baritone, and you hiccupped into your hand.  You nodded silently in reply, but you didn’t remove your hand from your eyes until you were entirely sure your face was no longer crumpled with unbidden emotion.  Gasping in a deep breath, you mopped up your cheeks with your sleeves once more.  He was watching you, and his eyes were soft, so soft.  And though he’d given you this gift with the sort of flippancy dictated by his acerbic personality, it was clear that the magnitude of his action was not lost on you, and thus your gratitude was not lost on him.

“I did not wish to overwhelm you,” he explained quietly, and you allowed his voice to gently pull you back into the present.  “We don’t have to discuss all of this right now.  Come see me tomorrow after classes, once you’ve got your schedule.  Then we can go over the details of your apprenticeship, as well as the Society of Potioneers.  Is that amenable to you?” 

You exhaled a ragged sigh of relief, the tension slowly receding from your body like low tide.  “Yes, sir,” you conceded, nodding your head slowly.  He was giving you time to process all of this.  To let it sink in and to come back bright eyed tomorrow.  You swallowed thickly, unsure what to say, besides, “Thank you, sir.”

Snape waved his hand, dismissing your sentiment.  “Don’t thank me,” he said quietly.  “Your own skill and persistence got you here.  You ought to be proud of yourself.” 

You smiled weakly, feeling your throat squeeze tightly again.  Unwilling to risk speech, you simply nodded, dabbing at the corners of your eyes with the cuff of your sleeve.  You wished you could go back to bed now.  Your lack of sleep last night (nay, for the last three weeks) seemed to be catching up with you all at once, and both your body and mind were fatigued. There was comfortable silence then, as you ruminated in your own exhaustion, and Snape regarded you with quiet interest.  After a beat, he picked up the envelope from Slughorn, and tapped the edge of it against the wood of his desk to get your attention. 

“Do you mind if I hold on to this?” he asked, and you shook your head mutely.  It would probably be safer with him anyway.  He nodded at your assent, and slipped the envelope into one of the inner pockets of his robes.  “I’d like to discuss it with Dumbledore.  All of it, if that’s alright with you.  He will be the one responsible for making any decisions or arrangements regarding the Society meeting.”  Snape seemed bitter about that, his eyes narrowed in his usual sneer that you knew wasn’t aimed at you.  “And I rather believe that he is the ‘good authority’ responsible for this anyway.  He and Slughorn were always chummy.”

You straightened up a little, your tired eyes widening slightly.  Dumbledore was… what?  Gossiping about _you_?  “You… You think so?” you asked reluctantly, wondering how Dumbledore was even aware that you existed.  You weren’t sure you’d ever personally spoken to the man in your life.  Even when you’d decked DeJarnette back in third year, McGonagall had been the one to handle the whole thing.

“I do,” Snape confirmed, and you were curious to see that color high on his cheeks again.  “The Headmaster is… well aware of your talent.”  Color suffused your face as well now, as you put together that Dumbledore knew you existed… because Snape had told him about you.  And you felt your stomach flutter at the notion that you were a topic of private conversation.  You looked away demurely; if he could let your embarrassment slide, you could return the favor.  “You _are_ on the verge of beating my N.E.W.T. score, after all.” 

Your eyes snapped right back to his at that, wider than ever, your previously drained state vanishing.  “Wha-!  No way!” you babbled uncouthly, but Snape merely lifted his eyebrows, a tight little grin tugging at his mouth.  “That… That’s impossible!”

“It is _entirely_ possible,” he chided, rising from his chair as the school bells began to ring, signaling the start of breakfast.  You followed his lead, standing aside as he made his way for the door.  “You have a distinct advantage over me when I was your age, after all.”

You drew your eyebrows together with suspicion as he held the door open, offering for you to exit first.  You didn’t even flinch when he settled his hand onto the small of your back as you passed.  “And what would that be?” you questioned tentatively, looking over your shoulder so as to keep your eyes on him.

Snape merely shrugged a shoulder, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.  “You’ve got _me_ for a teacher.” 

You stopped in your tracks, mouth falling open at the astronomical levels of sass you’d just experienced, and you didn’t hold back the incredulous laugh that escaped you.  He returned your mirth with a smirk of his own as he patted your back lightly, his tone shifting right back to business.  “Go to breakfast,” he instructed, nudging you towards the classroom door.  “Get your schedule and come back tomorrow evening.  We’ve got quite a lot of work to do in your final year, Miss Goode.  I hope you’re ready for it.”

Your skeptical smile morphed into something more genuine at his words, at his touch, and you nodded as you made your way across the potions classroom.  Snape did not follow, but you hadn’t really expected him to, lingering instead by his office door.  Once you’d reached the door to the dungeons, you turned around, hand hovering over the handle.  “I’ll do my best,” you promised him, a promise you’d made to him before.  “Thank you, Professor.”  He nodded his assent before shooing you off, and your smile stayed firmly on your face the entire trek through the dungeons. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love comments and I love you uvu


	8. Falling in Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 7th year. Your apprenticeship under Potions Master Severus Snape means long hours spent in close quarters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another transitional chapter, this one on the shorter side. Thing will rev up in the next two, promise ;9

It started with his hands.

You weren’t sure exactly _when_ it started, but it _had_ been early on in your apprenticeship when you realized that in all of your years at Hogwarts, you had never actually _seen_ Snape brew a single potion.  In the classroom he was an instructor, an observer, but never a demonstrator.  It was not until your apprenticeship began that you got to witness a true Master at work. 

The terms of your apprenticeship were simple, but left you almost completely devoid of a social life.  Any time you had a free period in the day, you were expected to spend those hours in the potions classroom, where you would usually pass the time grading tests and essays.  Occasionally you were given more interesting jobs, such as assisting with lessons for younger students, or your personal favorite, dissecting preserved animals and harvesting their organs for ingredients.  Most of the time you were left on your own to complete these tasks; Snape trusted you, and under his tutelage you had become adept at your job. 

But your _proper_ education took place on Saturday evenings in the dungeons. 

Apparently, the reason you’d never actually witnessed Snape brewing anything, was because he had a private potions lab, its door hidden behind one of the many shelves in his office.  You’d spent six and a half years visiting that damn office and _never once_ had you even _suspected-…_   Well. The man clearly valued his privacy.  The lab was spartan and basic; two work tables, four cauldrons, and several cupboards and cabinets containing various instruments and tools needed for preparing ingredients. 

Every Saturday, you would arrive precisely at eight o’clock after dinner, and would proceed to spend the next four hours brewing potions with your professor.  Typically, these sessions were spent restocking potions for the Hospital Wing; endless cauldrons full of Pepperup Potion, Calming Daughts, Dreamless Sleep and Essence of Dittany.  Rudimentary, but essential.  These necessary infusions were concocted in three of the available cauldrons.  It was in the fourth cauldron where you worked on your more… ambitious projects. 

But whether you were working on a simple Hiccoughing Solution, or attempting the month long process of making crystal clear Veritaserum, the one constant factor in your education was that Severus Snape was a _savant_.  Never once had you opened a text book in his classroom; you had always taken down his notes from the board.  In fact, you had six composition books worth of them, and were working on a seventh.  The same could be said for his private lab.  He worked from memory alone, never once having to crack open a book to find a recipe.  The only book to be found in the lab was his personal grimoire, a thick, brown leather-bound book where he’d written down his own formulations for countless potions.  He allowed you to use it as reference (every other published potions text was rubbish in his experience) and you handled the tome with the utmost reverence and respect.  He’d apparently improved nearly every single potion found in both standard and advanced level textbooks, either making their brewing simpler, or increasing the effectiveness of the potions themselves.  Small deviations in timing, stirring, preparation or temperature were the keys to turning a basic potion into something extraordinary.

Equally as impressive as his mental prowess, however, was his technique.  Everything he did, from the slicing of delicate herbs to the measuring of volatile liquids, was so exact, so controlled, it was like watching an automaton.  And it was during these observations of his methods that you started to take notice of his hands.  Because they were bloody _beautiful_.

At first, you chalked it up to the artist in you.  The way he worked was something akin to art, after all, and you were predispositioned to find beauty in all that you saw.  And his _hands_ …  Delicate bones wrapped in translucent gossamer, laced with blue veins, tipped with trim nails.  Long and slender, like pale spiders creeping over the worktable you shared, they were precise with a knife, powerful with a mortar and pestle, graceful with a stirring rod.  Like the conductor of an orchestra, every movement was carefully chosen to elicit the greatest effect. 

To the point that you couldn’t stop thinking about them.  You’d officially dedicated two pages of your sketch book to an intimate study of his hands.  Human anatomy had never been your strongest suit, but you were devoted to capturing their elegance on paper.  From his finely boned fingers to the cuff of his shirtsleeves ending above the knuckles, you’d committed their sharp angles and smooth lines to memory.  But his hands had only been the beginning.

Over the last six and a half years, you had become increasingly comfortable being around him.  You felt like you knew him well.  Or at least as well as he would allow you to.  But quiet nights in closed quarters had you noticing things you’d never picked up on before.  Things that may have been negligible to the casual observer, but had _you_ utterly captivated.  The curved nip of his narrow waist in his impeccably tailored frock coat.  The sharp cut of his jaw usually hidden behind a swath of shiny hair.  The way he couldn’t keep his fingers _off of his goddamn mouth_ when he was deep in thought.  It was becoming distracting, honestly, the way he pinched and traced and tugged at his lips.  It forced you to watch both his hands _and_ his mouth… and… _and_...

Now there were _eight_ pages in your sketchbook, entirely devoted to _him_.  You refrained from drawing his full visage (god forbid anyone peruse your art and get any ideas), but bits and pieces of him were scrawled across the paper, staggered between pages your usual fare of flowers and mushrooms.  Hands and boots and buttons and hair.  You’d tried to convince yourself that it wasn’t totally creepy.  That you were simply inspired by a unique individual, and you would never deny yourself the influx of creativity, especially for a subject matter that was not in your usual repertoire. 

But that would make him your _muse_.  And _that_ meant…  Well.  You’d been denying it for years, hadn’t you?  But there was really just no way around it any more.

 _Got it bad, got it bad, got it bad…_ You’re hot for teacher.

This realization wasn’t entirely unexpected, but finally admitting to yourself that you had a bloody _crush_ had been rather alarming.  You wondered at first if it was just infatuation; that you were so impressed with his abilities that you found yourself idealizing him through rose colored glasses.  But one look through your sketches proved that not to be the case.  Severus Snape was not a handsome man; you weren’t so disillusioned as to think he was anything _but_ ashen skin and oily hair and crooked teeth and a hooked nose.  But those were exactly the aspects which you had drawn in such loving detail, because even if they weren’t conventionally attractive, you still found them endearing. 

And indeed, it had never been his looks that drew you in, but his words and actions.  The way he treated you.  The way he’d been silently taking care of you for years now, and continued to do so.  Your life at Hogwarts had become overwhelming.  In your seventh year, you had so much homework to do, so many tests to take, so many friendships to maintain before you all graduated and went your separate ways.  But the second the door to his lab slammed shut behind you, you found yourself in beautiful serenity.  The hours spent in the dungeons, with him… they were like meditation by potion making.  You didn’t have to think about anything happening on the floors above you.  It was just you, and him, and the softly simmering cauldrons with their shimmering fumes.  Whenever you were with him, you felt safe and content.  And no one else had ever given you that.

Admitting to yourself that you did, indeed, have a ( _bloody_ ) crush on your Professor, had thankfully not hindered any of your interactions with him.  You had _always_ been eager prove yourself, so you did not suffer from the typical bumbling of someone trying to impress.  You were grateful to be skipping that stage of attraction.  You also weren’t naive.  Realistically, you knew that absolutely nothing would come from this.  He was your professor, and you were his student.  You weren’t delusional; you knew that these feelings would never see the light of day.  They certainly would never be returned.  It was inappropriate at best, and immoral at worst.  You just… didn’t know how to love him.  You knew you would never actively pursue these newfound feelings ( _were they really so new?_ ), but you couldn’t find it within yourself to suppress them either.  It left you in limbo.

But somehow, you didn’t feel badly about it.  If limbo was the space between exquisite ecstasy and profound suffering, then… frankly, you didn’t mind floating there.  You cherished the time you got to spend with him, when the banter was easy, even if the study was intense.  He would always be intertwined with your future, with the rest of your life, because he was teaching you the skills that would pave the way for it.  You would happily settle for neutral, if it felt this peaceful and warm. 

_Peaceful… Warm… when did it get so warm…?  The dungeons were freezing it wasn’t supposed to be…_

You sucked in a startled breath at the sound of your hourglass timer rattling on the table.  Entire body jolting, you winced as you peeled your face off of the wooden surface it has been smooshed against.  You blinked blearily, fumbling to reach out for the timer, to turn the blasted thing off, but your arms were tangled up and you couldn’t move fast enough and-

The gentle press of a hand between your shoulder blades immediately settled your struggling, and you peered up uneasily as Snape leaned across the work table beside you.  Silencing the hourglass with a wave of his hand, he plucked up a small dish of meticulously counted beetle eyes, and poured them into the nearby cauldron, where your Strengthening Solution turned from a pale, sky blue to a bright, vibrant turquoise.  Staring dumbly at the faintly glowing potion, you put together what had just occurred, and you groaned with dismay.

“Have a pleasant nap?” Snape asked, his voice almost sing-songy with amusement as he patted your shoulder, before stepping back to the other side of the work table and perching himself on the stool beside yours.  Groaning again, you made to bury your face in your hands, but your arms were still tangled up in copious amounts of black wool and _oh god_ he’d put his teaching robes around you.  You stared down in bewilderment at the drape of black fabric cocooning you.  Teakwood, clove bud, coriander.  _Peaceful and warm…_

He really wasn’t making this easy, was he?

“Why didn’t you wake me?” you whined groggily, finally extracting one of your hands from its confines and rubbing your face.  You could still feel the indentations and ridges from where you’d fallen asleep on the roughhewn wooden table.  God, how long had you been out?

“If you were tired enough to pass out in the middle of a brewing session, I imagine you needed the rest,” Snape replied easily, though there was now an edge of concern to his voice.  Turning away from his own cauldron to face you, his arms crossed over his thin chest, he studied you with a critical eye.  “If these private lessons are taking a toll on your health, I can arrange something else-”

“No!” you interrupted quickly, and Snape’s eyebrows flew up his forehead at your vehemence.  You hadn’t meant to sound so zealous, but the last thing you wanted was for these lessons to end.  “No I mean, they aren’t.  Taking a toll.”  You shrugged your shoulders, absently pulling his robes tighter around yourself, savoring the warmth.  You had no intention of returning them any time soon.  “Honestly, coming down here is the only thing I look _forward_ to anymore.  It’s… everything _else_ …”  You waved your one free hand in an all-encompassing motion, and he seemed to glean your meaning. 

“They _are_ called Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests for a reason,” Snape explained, and you grinned at the hint of sympathy in his voice.  He was certainly speaking from experience.  “Only a few more months, then you’ll be free.”  And just as quickly as your smile had appeared, it melted away.  That was supposed to be encouraging, you knew.  That the rigor of tests and school and academic obligation was nearing an end.  But even in such light terms, it only served to remind you that your time left here was becoming short.  Snape frowned, his thick brows furrowing together as he leaned against the work table, dipping his head in an attempt to catch your eye.  “If you ever need a night off…”

Your melancholy smile returned, touched by his concern, but you shook your head.  “I don’t know what else I would do with my Saturday nights,” you teased, though you weren’t even remotely lying.  That was probably kind of sad, but it was the truth.  There was no place you’d rather be.  “But thank you, sir.”

Snape eyed you doubtfully for a few moments longer, before sighing reluctantly.  “Very well.  But I insist that you tell me if it _does_ start having a negative impact on you.”  You nodded in agreement, and he returned it, before he uncrossed his arms and used his wand to accio a box of empty jars with cork stoppers from a crate across the lab.  “Are you quite awake _now_ , Miss Goode?”

Your smile widened, no longer sad, but pleased.  “Yes, sir,” you nodded, and you finally had to relent your grip on his robes.  Slipping it from your shoulders, you shook out the dark raiment before holding it out to him.

Taking the cloak from your hands, Snape replaced it with the box of jars.  “Splendid.  Start bottling.  Sprout needs those for Monday.”  Professor Sprout was in the process of cultivating some young Devil’s Snare, and intended to give the Strengthening Solution to her unlucky students as a precaution.  It seemed like a fair countermeasure, but wasn’t just chilling out the best way to combat Devil’s Snare?  Not fighting against it?  Either way, it wasn’t _your_ class so you didn’t really care.  You just knew you had brewed the best damn Strengthening Solution of your life.  Even if you’d fallen asleep during the simmering stage… woopsie.

You started uncorking several of the bottles as Snape strode towards the door, hanging his teaching robes up on a set of hooks affixed to the wall.  “I think it’s time we talk about March,” he said suddenly, and you fumbled one of the bottles, hot-potatoing the glass as it nearly plummeted to the ground, before grasping it with both hands and clutching it to your chest.  _God!_   Why did he always _do_ that? 

Setting the jar down with trembling fingers, you held back the piece of your mind you were tempted to give him.  “The Society meeting?” you asked, knowing that the clarification was pointless.  That was the only thing happening in March, after all, and it was a scant three months away.

“Indeed.  How every astute of you,” Snape drawled, and you had to physically refrain from rolling your eyes, as he had returned to your side.  Taking his place back on the stool beside yours, he cast a stasis spell over the potion he’d been brewing (something experimental, he wasn’t giving to details, yet) before leaning an elbow on the table and placing his cheek in his hand.  He watched you idly as you began to ladle globs of bright blue potion into the jars.  “Headmaster Dumbledore has informed me he has secured us two beds at the Atticus, all on the school’s tab,” he began, his voice businesslike and his expression bored.  “And since the hotel is a stones throw away from Kings Cross, we’ll be taking the Hogwarts Express.  We’ll be leaving on Friday morning, arriving on the night before the meeting begins, and returning Sunday night after closing ceremonies.  We should be back in time for classes to begin on Monday.”

You frowned at this information, forcing a large cork stopper into the wide rim of the first jar.  “Wouldn’t it be easier to just Apparate?” you asked.  It sure seemed like a lot of unnecessary logistics.  It was going to take three days to attend a meeting that would last less than 48 hours?  And almost two days’ worth of that time would be spent on a train?

There was a long beat of silence, and you glanced over at your professor curiously.  Snape seized his opportunity.  “Do you know _how_ to Apparate?” he deadpanned, and your mouth fell open with an offended grunt.

“Of course I do!” you retaliated, and your ire only grew as one of his eyebrows crept further up his smug face.  “You _know_ I passed my-”

“I’ll rephrase the question,” Snape countered dangerously, lifting his face from his hand and narrowing his eyes to slits.  Your mouth snapped shut.  “Do you know how to Apparate without _splinching_ yourself?”

Your hand unconsciously flew to your right ear.  “That was _one_ time!” you protested, cupping your hand around the organ you had once accidentally left on the other side of the Great Hall, earrings and all.

It was his turn to roll his eyes, but Snape was very clearly fighting down his own mirth, a grin struggling to form on his lips.  “We’re taking the train,” he said with a note of finality, and you deflated with a mopey frown.  You turned away from him then, ladling potion with renewed vigor, and popping in corks so tightly that Professor Sprout was going to have a difficult time opening them manually.  “Don’t you _pout_ at me,” he warned sternly, already fed up with your theatrics, which was a real _laugh_ coming from him.  “Licensed or not, I’d prefer us both to get there in one piece, thank you.”

You sighed, your cheeks burning red at his admonishment, but you nodded again, unenthusiastically.  “Yes, sir,” you mumbled, still sounding petulant.  But Snape seemed pleased enough with your compliance, and didn’t press you further. 

“Do you have any questions for me?” Snape asked finally, starting to place the filled potion bottles into the box the empties had been stored in.  There was only a few more bottles worth left of potion in the cauldron, and you took your time scooping it out as you considered his question.  You’d been quite happy to let him and Dumbledore handle the whole thing.  Your mother had indeed sent letters of permission to both the Headmaster and your Head of House, consenting both to the trip, as well as to allowing Professor Snape to be the one to accompany you.  Despite your opposition to taking the train, in favor of testing your own Apparation abilities, you trusted all parties involved to make the right decisions for you.  Really, the only thing you were worried about was… everyone else.

“Do you know who’s going to be there?” you asked finally, sliding the next bottle over to him.  Your fingers brushed as he took the jar from you, and you shivered a little.  It… sure was cold in the dungeon.

“I can’t say for sure,” Snape replied thoughtfully, placing the bottle into the box absently as he mulled your question over.  “I only ever attended one of these things in my youth.”  You frowned at that.  The man was scarcely 30 if your calculations were correct, but he spoke as if his ‘youth’ had been a lifetime ago.  “I was… disenchanted to discover that it’s barely about potions and more about making and maintaining social connections.  Not much use to me back then, but it should be invaluable to _you_ now.  All I know is that Horace Slughorn will be there, so I have no doubt that the guest list will be impressive.  He tends to surround himself with the best of the best.” 

You shivered again, but not the result of an errant touch this time.  You grimaced a little as you filled the final bottle, pressing in the cork and placing that one into the box yourself.  “I don’t mean to be offensive sir,” you started hesitantly, treading lightly. “But… Horace Slughorn kind of sounds like a creep.”  You were afraid that there was a chance that Snape and Slughorn were close, and you certainly didn’t want to get on either of their bad sides. 

But Snape barked out a short laugh, and your tension drained.  Your smile was bordering on dreamy at the sight and sound of it, but you quickly sobered yourself up as he confirmed, “You aren’t wrong.”  He waved his wand over your cauldron, banishing the dregs and scourgifying the rest.  “However, I assure you that despite his favoritism and penchant for collecting people who may be useful to him, he’s harmless.”

You really weren’t sure if this made you feel better or not.  Just the words, ‘collecting people’, made you feel a little uncomfortable.  Like maybe you hadn’t been invited to this thing based purely on your raw talent.  Maybe Slughorn was going to expect favors of you in the future, were you ever to make it big in the field.  Not that that _mattered_ , you certainly weren’t entering into this for the recognition.  But the idea that someone might think that you owe them anything for the contacts you were about to make seemed… unsavory to you.  It made you all the more grateful that Snape was to be your chaperone.

“If you say so,” you sighed, and pulled back the sleeve of your jumper, checking the thin oval shaped watch your mother had given you for Christmas a few weeks prior.  Keeping track of time had become a major priority during your last school year, and the amethyst colored clock face told you that it was nearing midnight. 

“I do say so,” Snape retorted, and you glanced over to him with a tired smile.  Tired from the length of the day, and tired of his _sass_.  He nodded placatingly to you, before turning away and heading towards the door leading to his office, box of your Strengthening Solution still in his hands.  You sighed with relief as you slipped off of your stool, knowing you had been dismissed for the evening.  Stretching your arms above your head, you arched your body backwards, feeling your stiff bones pop with gratitude, and Snape made a small noise of disgust from his office.  You laughed at his apparent revulsion, and considered cracking your knuckles as well, but it was too late to be goading him like this.  Silently following him into his office, you bid each other goodnight, before parting your respective ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your patience 💕 I hope you enjoyed!


	9. Easy Dreamer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 7th Year. You and Snape finally arrive at the meeting for the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers. You make some new friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you’re ready for a long one. I’m sorry for the wait but I hope this chapter is worth it.

The sun had set on London by the time the Hogwarts Express finally pulled into Kings Cross station, and it was utterly disorienting to be standing on a deserted Platform 9 ¾ in the freezing darkness.  Disembarking the Hogwarts Express was usually accompanied by the shouts and squeals of hundreds of other students, the eager waving of relieved parents, and the shining face of your mother as she called out to you from the crowd.  There were warm embraces and tender moments of families reuniting.  But on this gloomy, frigid March evening, where the snow had melted into dirty slush and the wind howled through the platform arches, all you had was your coat, your bag, and Professor Snape.

The train ride had been dreadful.  Not that there was anything wrong with the company.  Indeed, Snape had been a perfectly pleasant traveling companion; chatting when appropriate, followed by a comfortable silence as the conversation dwindled down.  He’d read the Daily Prophet, then switched to a potions periodical, before abandoning reading all together to simply watch the countryside roll past.  At one point he’d gone over your résumé with you, and had used a charm to create several copies, which you now had stowed in your bag, ready to hand out upon request.  No, Snape had been the least of your worries.  It was the goddamn waiting that had nearly driven you insane. 

As mentally tough as you considered yourself to be, when it came to matters of your future, you were always extremely anxious.  The fear that you weren’t fit to do anything, either in the muggle or the magical world, was so crippling that it sometimes made you sick to your stomach.  And the thought that you might manage to royally fuck up this weekend was a particularly nauseating one.  You had tried to draw, to read, to study, with very little success in all three categories.  You took an embarrassing number of trips to the lavatory, mostly as an excuse to get up and walk around the nearly empty train, but also because you constantly felt like you needed to pee.  You knew it was just nerves, but it was better than sitting around and squirming in front of Snape, who blessedly had nothing to say about the matter.  You really owed him so much for how often he just let you be a twit without comment.

Now that you were finally here though… you honestly didn’t feel much better.  You knew the sensation would pass once you got there.  Once things finally got started, your usual confidence would return.  That was always the way, wasn’t it?  Spend days ( _and weeks, and months_ ) anxious and worrying about a big event or appointment or test or something, but once it finally arrived, and then when it was over… You’d look back and wonder why you’d been so wound up in the first place.  You were sure that would be the case this time… right?

The wind whipped at your hair, and you realized you were too cold to be worrying about it right this moment.  You fumbled to do up the toggle buttons on your afghan coat as you followed after Snape, who was wasting no time making his way off of this godforsaken platform.  While you had made an effort to wear muggle clothing for the journey, Snape hadn’t bothered, his traveling cloak billowing behind him as dramatically as ever.  But then again, it was London; there were odder fashion choices on every street corner.  Stuffing your aching hands into the wool lined pockets of your coat, you fell into step beside your professor. 

“Y-You said it wasn’t f-far, right?”  Your teeth were chattering, and your breath was misty in the frozen air.  The night only grew colder as you departed from the well-lit train station.  It wasn’t that late, and there were still a fair amount of people out on the streets despite the cold; it was still a Friday night, after all.  It probably wouldn’t be in good form to attempt a warming spell in front of so many muggles…

“Not far at all,” Snape replied easily, and you pouted as it appeared that he wasn’t even affected by the chill.  No wonder he’d opted to wear his Dracula cape; it was probably charmed against the cold as well as the rain.  He had glanced over at your stuttering and shivering, and you didn’t like the way he arched that stupid brow of his.  “You aren’t _cold_ , are you?” he asked, his voice so heavy with mock concern that you were momentarily speechless.  You screwed your features into the harshest glare your frozen face could manage, but really, you couldn’t even be mad at him.  Mostly you were mad at yourself, for wanting nothing more than to drape yourself in those warm woolen folds with his arm about your shoulder again…  Okay, your face felt a little warmer, now.  This is fine. 

Snape huffed a little laugh, his breath puffing from between his lips.  It was hard not to watch.  “You were the one who insisted on muggle fashion over function,” he chided, but as he did so, he lifted his hand and placed it delicately on top of your head.  And almost instantly you were enrobed in permeating warmth, like slipping into a hot bath after being caught out in the rain.  And you certainly hoped that it was his magic, and not merely the effects of his touch, that had you sighing with relief.  His ability to use wandless magic never ceased to amaze you.  “Better?” he asked quietly, and you nodded your confirmation as he pulled his hand away.

“Yes, thank you,” you murmured, though you still kept your hands deep in your pockets.  Warming charms didn’t last forever, and you really hoped he’d been truthful when he said the hotel wasn’t too far.  Looking around to get your bearings, you were shocked to find yourself in a distinctly shabby part of town.  There had been bright street lights and crowded sidewalks just moments before.  But now…  It rather reminded you of the side street the Hog’s Head had been down; derelict buildings with boarded up windows and doors.  Broken glass and overflowing rubbish bins littered the street, and you were passing an alleyway that was cordoned off with crime scene tape.  That… _That_ was a little alarming, and you drifted closer to your professor, your arm bumping his as you glanced around anxiously. 

“Nearly there,” Snape promised you, and though you were thankful for the verification, it didn’t make you feel any safer.  Your wand was up your sleeve, and you were wondering how long it would take you to retrieve it from the layers of clothing under your coat.  Perhaps sleeve concealment was not the best place to stow your wand, though you’d been doing it for years.  Maybe that’s why magic folk preferred cloaks and robes to jackets and coats.  You were pondering the alternatives when Snape came to a halt beside you, and you immediately followed suit, peering up at the building before you. 

Gazing at the façade, you physically blanched with a muted choking noise.  The building looked condemned; crumbling bricks, rusted railing, shattered windows.  There were faded, official looking ‘Keep Out’ and ‘No Trespassing’ signs every few yards, and the walls had been tagged with neon orange spray paint reading ‘DEMO’ in great big letters.  The twisted coils of burnt out neon tubing hanging from the vertical marquee overhead read ‘The Atticus,’ much to your horror.  This… was your hotel for the weekend.

Your face was white as you watched Snape ascend the short flight of stairs up to the main doors.  Following cautiously, you stood close beside him, noting that the doors were, in fact, both chained _and_ padlocked.  Bloody _fantastic_.  But Snape seemed to know what he was doing, as he so often did, and after extracting his wand from his own sleeve ( _show off_ ), he tapped at the lock in some sort of rhythmic pattern that reminded you of Morse code.  And like watching a video in fast forward, the chain and padlock were suddenly dissolving into rust, falling from the door handles and clattering to the concrete steps.  Not nearly as impressive as gaining access to Diagon Alley, but at least that was located behind an inn that _wasn’t_ actively crumbling to the ground.

“There better be a five star hotel behind these doors,” you whinged, glancing back over your shoulder at the silent, deserted street.  No one had followed you.  No one was even loitering.  All of which you were grateful for, but none of which made you feel any more comfortable with the situation.  You were already anxious; you didn’t need to add ‘being shanked inside of a burnt out hotel in bloody Camden’ to your list of worries.

“Four stars, at least,” came Snape’s dry retort.  You turned back around to find the door opened for you, and you were momentarily dazzled by what you found beyond the threshold.  Where there had once been eerie, silent darkness, there was now warm, golden light and the bustling sounds of friendly hospitality.  It was utterly bizarre, to be seeing such an extravagant hotel lobby on the inside, while the outside appeared entirely decrepit.  Even after nearly seven years, you were still amazed by magic sometimes.  You couldn’t help but smile widely, your apprehension melting away.

“I’d give it a solid four and a half,” you teased, your demeanor brightening considerably as Snape ushered you through the doorway.  He kept his hand on the small of your back as he led the way, and you were appreciative, because there was a distinct risk of getting lost in here.  The lobby of The Atticus was larger than seemed possible from the building’s dimensions on the outside, but that was a typical magic thing, you guessed.  Everything was scarlet, from the Persian rugs on the white marble floor to the velvet flocked wallpaper with elaborate floral patterns.  And everything that wasn’t red, was either deep mahogany wood, or pristine gold filigree.  There was a lush embroidered carpet that ran the length of the room, marking the path from the front doors to the registration desk.  On either side of this path were small sitting areas, plush leather armchairs clustered around low wooden coffee tables in front of ornate fireplaces, some of which had people stepping out of them at regular intervals.  And nearly every one of these tables was occupied by a group of wizards, some of them smoking pipes and cigars, giving the lobby a hazy sort of feel through all the red and gold.  You’d never been in a luxury hotel in your life, but four and a half stars felt like an understatement. 

Snape did not tolerate your wonderment for long, leading the way through the lobby towards the registration desk, where a small line was formed.  You wouldn’t let his impatience dampen your curiosity though, as you peered around the large room, glancing at the faces of the various people, wondering how many of them were here for the Society meeting.  They all appeared to be older men, which wasn’t exactly surprising, but… maybe a little disappointing.  Potions had never really struck you as being a ‘man’s world’, but you were certainly outnumbered here.  You saw very few female faces among the chattering guests.  You tried not to worry about that.  There was nothing to _be_ worried about.  If potions was a male dominated field, then that was reason enough for you to be here, as it gave you even more to prove. 

A slight pressure on your back made you realize you were dawdling again, and you stepped forward at Snape’s insistence, his hand still firmly planted on your back, keeping you close.  You relished the warmth of that simple touch, the way it grounded you to the present moment.  It never made you feel uncomfortable, never suggested that his intentions were anything but pure.  And you cherished that, because it made you feel safe.  Cared for.  You wondered if that’s what it might have felt like, if you’d ever had a male figure to look up to when you were younger.

The line at the reception desk wasn’t very long, but the people ahead of you already had impatient scowls on their faces.  Both clerks behind the desk looked exhausted, and you couldn’t help but feel bad for them; clearly the increased number of guests was taking its toll.  You winced and looked away as one of the patrons at the front raised her voice to such a high pitch, you feared the ornate chandelier overhead might crash to the ground.  You had no interest in watching the carnage. 

To the left of the front desk were two fireplaces, and you got the impression that these were reserved specifically for making calls; a young man in lilac robes was bent over on all fours, his head completely engulfed in bright green flame.  Not the most dignified position to be in, especially in public, but he _did_ have a cute arse… You glanced away quickly, heat crawling up your face.  Way to be a creep, Gwen.  Just beyond the fireplaces was a set of bifolded glass doors with brass hinges, and while you instantly recognized them for what they were, you were utterly baffled as to what they were doing _here_.  They were telephone boxes.  Old fashioned ones by the looks of them.  Beyond their glass windows you could see the antique looking telephones, with rotary dials and woven fabric chords and everything. 

“Are those _real_ phone boxes?” you asked suddenly, looking up to your professor, and you were momentarily stunned to find a look of deep annoyance there.  Your mind flew as you tried to determine what you could possibly have said or done to elicit such a reaction, but then you realized his eyes weren’t on you at all.  Rather, they were trained on the front desk, and the apparent showdown taking place between the haggard hotel employees and the disgruntled diva that was holding up the line.  It seemed he’d barely even heard you. 

“Are… _what_?”  Snape blinked, returning his attention to you as his features morphed from irritation to confusion.  You smiled sheepishly, and pointed over towards the glass booths, and it took him a moment longer to comprehend.  “Oh.  Well, of course they are,” he frowned, looking back to you dubiously, as if severely questioning your intelligence.  “What do you mean ‘real’ phone boxes?  What else would they be?” 

You narrowed your eyes at the harsh edge to his voice, but refrained from saying anything critical; his aggravation wasn’t really with _you_.  You did shrug your shoulders though, rolling your eyes in exasperation.  “I don’t know!” you exclaim, gesturing towards the glass doors.  “It’s not going to turn into an elevator or some nonsense if I go step into one?” 

You thought this was a perfectly valid concern, and after a moment’s consideration… Snape seemed to agree.  “Fair point,” he grumbled reluctantly before shaking his head, greasy tendrils swaying about his face.  “But no, I don’t believe they’re anything more mundane than muggle telephone boxes.”  He pressed his eyebrows together, returning his attention to you.  “Why do you ask?”

You hesitated then, the half formed thought you’d developed upon seeing the booths finally taking shape.  Glancing down, you pulled back the sleeve of your afghan to look at your watch.  It was sort of late, nearly 9 o’clock in the evening, but you were certain she’d still be awake, if she wasn’t working.  “I was thinking about calling my mother,” you admitted finally, returning your eyes to his.  “I promised her I would send an owl when we arrived, but if those are connected to actual phone lines…”  Snape comprehended easily, nodding his approval of your idea, and you found yourself appreciative of your shared blood status once again.  You had tried to explain how telephones worked to one of your pure-blood girlfriends a few years ago, and while she had managed to give you a ring over the summer, she had been speaking into the wrong end of the handset the entire time, and the conversation never got very far. 

“Go ahead,” Snape insisted, glancing up towards the front desk, where the diva was being sycophantically appeased by two managers who looked like they licked boots for a living.  “We won’t have our rooms for another hour at this rate,” he growled with a heavy sigh before finally nodding his acquiescence, jerking his chin towards the glass doors.  “Wait there for me when you’re finished, alright?”

“Yes, sir!” you agreed eagerly, before slipping out of your place in the queue and walking towards the glass doors.  Lilac Robes was still bent over in the fireplace, and you made a valiant effort not to glance down as you walked past him, though he was squirming around rather animatedly.  There must have been quite a lively conversation happening on the other end of that Floo.  Rubbing your hand over your face, you tried to discourage your grin and cool down your cheeks.  Get it together, Gwen.

Slipping into the booth, you sat down on the little bench before pulling the bifolded doors shut, when it abruptly became very quiet, the doors completely blocking out the noise of the lobby beyond.  So maybe they _weren’t_ perfectly muggle and mundane.  That was fine by you though; the sudden silence was a welcome reprieve for your nerves.  You were right in your assumption that the boxes were old fashioned.  _Antique_ seemed like an even better word.  But aside from the braided chord and rotary dial, most charming of all was a small, framed sign hanging from the wall, that gave explicitly detailed instruction on how to properly (and politely) use a telephone.  Wizards were _precious_.

You required no instruction though, and you picked up the handset from the cradle, holding it to your ear and sighing with relief as you heard a dial tone.  No need to deposit coins then.  They truly were ‘complimentary for all guests wishing to contact muggle friends and family’, as was indicated by the sign.  Though you don’t think you’d ever used a phone with a rotary dial in your life, the automatic recall of your lifelong home number came quickly to your fingers.  You took deep breaths in time with the ringback tone as it buzzed away in your ear.  It _was_ a Friday night… And she was a bartender after all.  Would she be working?  She always got enough hours to make decent money, but she’d never had a consistent schedule.  You wracked your brain, trying to remember the number for the pub-

A clatter from the other end of the line made you jump, but any fright dissolved instantly at the words, “This is Vivian.”  Your mother’s voice was flat and impatient, which told you she was expecting to be called in to work against her will, and she was ready to put up one hell of a fight about it.

You smiled widely despite the cold greeting.  It was just _so_ good to hear her voice.  “Hi, Mum.”

“ _Gwen_?!”

And then you were laughing, delight bubbling up at the sudden shift of your mother’s voice from tough determination to absolute shock.  You nodded, but realized she couldn’t see it, so you vocally confirmed, “Uh huh!”

“Oh my god, Gwen!”  Now she was laughing too, her voice softening, the edges smoothed away by relief, not only to hear your voice, but also probably because you weren’t her boss.  If you closed your eyes, you could picture her in the sitting room of your flat, her mass of wavy brunette hair up in a messy clip, wearing her long flannel pajamas with little sheep on them that she saved for the winter months, along with a crocheted blanket around her shoulders.  The one she’d cobbled together out of scraps of yarn from other projects, so that it was an absolutely absurd mix of colors and textures in neat little zigzags.  You could hear music in the background, so she was probably listening to records instead of watching television.  And if she was listening to _records_ …  She was probably baked into next Tuesday.  No wonder she had no desire to go into work.  Typical Viv.

Both of your giggles tapered off after a few moments, and your mother sighed happily, apparently just as pleased as you were at hearing her voice.  “I’ve been waiting for an owl to peck at the kitchen window all night,” she explained, and you could hear her moving around through the speaker.  “But this is _way_ more convenient.”  The music suddenly swelled as she seemed to near the record player (Beethoven?  She must have been anxious), before the volume was turned down low, and she instantly launched into mom-mode.  “Where the hell are you _calling_ from?  Are you in London?  Are you at the hotel?  How was the trip?  Tell me _everything_!”

You were giggling again, and you tried to remember all of her questions as you compiled your answers.  “Yes, I’m in London.  And I’m calling you from, get this, an antique telephone box, inside of the most luxurious hotel I’ve ever seen in my life.  They’ve got them for guests who want to call their muggle relations, but it’s like sitting inside of a time machine.  It’s got a rotary and everything.”  You distractedly ran your fingers over the curve of the dial, slotting the pad of your thumb into each of the little finger holes.  “It’s really beautiful here.  I wish I could take pictures or something to show you.  I’d suggest visiting sometime but… let’s just say, I’m really glad the school is picking up the bill.”  You shook your head.  You were rambling, but you imagined your mother nodding along with you on the other end of the line.  “Oh, and the trip was _dreadful_.  I felt like I needed to pee the whole time.  It was the _worst_.”

You hear soft giggles from the other line, and you rubbed your face in shame.  “Aw, Pumpkin, _come on_ ,” she admonished, and you smiled at the nickname.  You always liked ‘pumpkin’.  “You’re gonna do _fine_.  Attend a couple of lectures with a bunch of old fuddy-duddies, and then blow them away at that party tomorrow night.  Your sunny aura is going to shine _so_ bright.  Among _other things_.”  Her voice dropped conspiratorially at this last suggestion.  You could practically hear her waggling her eyebrows.  “Did you get the dresses?”

You groaned, dropping your face into your free hand as you did so.  Your cheeks felt red hot beneath your fingers.  “Mum, I’m looking for a _job_ , not a _husband_.”  Sliding your hand away from your face, you instead rubbed the back of your neck as you peered through the glass panes of the door.  Snape had finally made it to the front desk, but he didn’t look particularly happy.  Not that he ever did.  “But… Yes.  I got the dresses.  I decided to go with the green one.”

“So conservative,” she teased.  “But I suppose it was always your favorite.  I think I still have a photo of you playing dress up in it when you were five or something.”  You cringed slightly, knowing that your face was also smeared with red lipstick and black eyeshadow in that picture.  “I wore that dress to a winter formal when I was seventeen too, you know.”

“I’m eighteen now, mum” you reminded her, and smiled widely at her agonized sigh.  A smile which disappeared instantly as you caught sight of Snape stalking towards you, an absolutely murderous look on his face.  Your breath caught in your throat, and you cupped your free hand around your mouth and the receiver.  She was muttering something about never reminding her of her age, when you cut her off.  “Hey, I’ve got to go.  Looks like Professor Snape has our rooms, so I should probably get going.”

“Okay, Sugarpie,” she sighed dramatically again, but her voice was still laced with relief at having heard from you at all.  “Thanks for calling me.  I’m working the rest of the weekend, so ring me at the pub if you’ve got a chance, alright?  You remember the number?”

Damn.  No.  You _didn’t_ remember the number.  But Snape was hovering outside the door now, and you could _feel_ the seething hatred radiating off of him from behind the glass.  “Yeah, of course,” you lied.  “I think the weekend will be pretty jam-packed, but I’ll try to call again before we leave on Sunday.  If not, I’ll send you an owl when I get back to Hogwarts, okay?”

“Alright, Honeybun…”  She didn’t sound too pleased with your non-commitment, but relented all the same.  “Have fun this weekend, and be safe.  I love you, Gwen.”  And even having Snape standing so close, with so much displeasure seeping off of him, you couldn’t fight back your smile from the warmth of her words.

“I love you too, mum,” you said quietly, and you sat there a few moments longer, even as you heard the click from the other end, followed by the persistent buzz of a call interrupted.  Finally hanging up the handset, you took a deep breath, trying to hold on to the steadying calm that hearing your mother’s voice had brought you.  You allowed that calm to fortify your nerves as you stood to face whatever inconvenience had befallen your professor, and probably yourself.  Sliding the bifold doors open, you stayed standing in the tiny room as Snape turned to face you from where he stood beside the door.  “What’s wrong?” you asked quickly, a frown deepening on your face, matching his own scowl.

Snape looked slightly taken aback by your abruptness, but quickly realized that his expression must have been quite transparent.  Pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers, he closed his eyes in an attempt to set his features back into neutral territory.  You took the opportunity to step out of the telephone box, sliding the door shut behind you as you stood before your professor.  “When Dumbledore told me that he had reserved two beds, I had been under the impression that he had meant _two rooms_.” 

This confession hung in the air like a lead balloon, and it crashed to the ground just as quickly as you understood exactly what he meant.  And in all of your years of blushing in front of your professor, none had ever been quite as profuse as the one scalding your face right now.  “I’m… guessing the two beds are in the _same_ room?” you clarified stupidly, and Snape removed his fingers from his nose, glaring down at you quietly.  Right.  Duh.  “Does the hotel have no other vacancies?” you tried hesitantly, trying not to further incur his wrath. 

“They’re full up,” Snape hissed, his words clipped as he turned his glare back out to the groups of witches and wizards clustered about in the lobby, as if they were personally responsible for this mishap.  “Not surprising, as this is a popular event.  But Albus made these arrangements _months_ in advance.  I don’t understand why that meddling old fool would-” He seemed to catch himself, and his hand returned to his face, rubbing his forehead agitatedly as he took a heavy breath.  “I understand that the situation is less than ideal.  I can try to find other accommodations for myself somewhere nearby-”

“What!?  Why?” you cut in quickly, your eyes widening with the beginnings of panic. Was he really ready to _leave the hotel_ so that you could have the room to yourself?  He looked over to you uncertainly, and though you were positive your face was still feverishly red, your features were quite serious.  “The whole point of you coming with me was so I wouldn’t have to be here _alone_.”  You glanced around the lobby yourself, and your blush finally began to recede at the idea of being left on your own.  There were so many people, people you didn’t _know_ , and while you took no issue being around strangers, the very last thing you wanted was to be stuck here without _someone_ who had your back.  “You said the room has separate beds, right?”  Your crossed your arms over your chest defensively, looking down at the space of red carpet between your boots.  “I don’t see what the problem is.”

There was a pause, one that lasted longer than necessary, and you knew he was doing _the thing_.  You closed your eyes and sighed petulantly, quite on purpose in order to express your irritation, before opening them again and meeting his eyes with your own narrowed ones.  His brow was arched to truly worrisome heights, and this time his glower really _was_ for you.  “Really?” he asked, his voice dripping with condescension.  “You _don’t_ see what the problem is?”

You sighed with exasperation and threw your hands up.  “I don’t care!” you professed, reaching the peak of your frustration.  “I’m an adult.  I’m not worried about how it might look or whatever.  Besides, Dumbledore made the reservations himself.  Obviously _he_ trusts you.  And I…”  You swallowed thickly, your fervor simmering down to something more subdued.  “I trust you, too.  You’ve never given me any reason _not_ to trust you.”  You let your hands fall back down, fidgeting with the wooden toggles of your coat.  “I just don’t want to be here by myself.  _Please_.”  You glanced back up at him, a little afraid to let him peer into your head if that was his intention.  But you just put your desire to have your chaperone close by at the forefront of your mind.  “I promise, I don’t care.  Even if you snore or something.” 

Your poor attempt at humor had the desired effect, as Snape dropped his head with a snort.  He proceeded to rub at his forehead, clearly taking his time to process your request.  You knew you were asking a lot.  Snape probably wasn’t expecting to be the one most uncomfortable with the idea.  He clearly thought _you_ would be the one to insist he buzz off somewhere else for the next two nights, and maybe he was right.  Maybe you should have been more concerned about rooming with a male teacher.  But you stood by your conviction; you were an adult, by all accounts, and you trusted him _so_ explicitly, you had no doubt in your mind that he would do nothing to betray that trust.  You’d been building it for almost seven years now.  He wasn’t going to hurt you.  He was going to keep you safe.

“Dumbledore _did_ make the reservation,” Snape muttered quietly, seemingly to himself, and you nodded in agreement.  That was like, extra insurance or something.  A third party was aware of the situation, and that third party was Albus freakin’ Dumbledore.  Snape sighed heavily, and reached into the pocket of his trousers, pulling out a key hanging from a braided golden tassel.  Holding two ends of the tassel between his fingers with both hands, he pulled them sharply apart, and the tassel magically split into two, with a key dangling from each of their ends.  It was like watching a _muggle_ magic trick, and you smiled in appreciation as he held out one of the keys to you.  “We’re in room four-twelve,” he informed you, his voice still hesitant, but you took the key from him gratefully, slipping it into the pocket of your afghan.  “Do you want to call your mother back?  Inform her of the situation as well…?”

He sounded entirely disinclined to even make the suggestion, but the fact that he was suggesting it at all was reason enough for you to believe that it was unnecessary, because it was clearly meant to make _you_ feel more comfortable.  You shook your head, a small smile on your lips as he gazed down at you reluctantly.  “It’s alright.  I’m sure she’d be fine with it.”  And that was no exaggeration, either.  That woman was too perceptive, and you already suspected that she knew too much.  There was no question of where you’d gotten it from as a child. 

Snape released one last withering sigh, before seeming to accept the circumstances he found himself in.  “Let’s head up then,” he suggested wearily, and you felt sort of bad for your insistence now.  Despite any affection you held for the man, your intentions _were_ pure.  You didn’t see this as an opening to be alone with him; indeed, you’d had that opportunity every Saturday evening for the last seven months.  You truly just didn’t want to be alone at this function, and you weren’t perturbed by the idea of sharing sleeping quarters with him.  However… you understood how bad this would look for him, if anyone were to question the arrangement.  You decided not to make a big deal out of it, and if anyone asked, you would remind them that you were an adult, and your relationship with him was purely professional.  You’d insist to anyone who challenged it that Snape was a goddamn gentleman.  It wouldn’t even be a lie. 

Following blindly behind your professor through the lobby, you actually plowed right into his back as he came to an abrupt halt.  You had been so lost in your thoughts that you were completely disoriented by the sudden stop, but it only lasted for a moment, before you heard a gruff voice call out, “Severus, my boy!” 

You could actually feel the muscles of Snape’s back tighten under your hands, and you quickly pulled yourself away from him, taking a step back and to the side to peer around him at the approaching owner of the voice.  And try as you might not to openly gape, you were sure your eyes were wide at the sight of this odd, fat little man.   If you’d thought the phone boxes were a blast from the past, this man had been transported from even further back, if his enormous moustache and wardrobe choices were any indication.  That was an honest to god velvet smoking jacket he looked ready to burst out of, not to mention the matching slippers.  Slippers!  In a hotel lobby!  The only thing missing was a cane and a top hat, and he’d be the monopoly guy. 

You were wondering who had the balls to be calling your professor ‘my boy’, when Snape extended his lean hand out to the man’s chubby one, where they met in a firm handshake.  “Professor Slughorn,” Snape greeted cordially, and you nearly choked on your sudden gasp, coughing into your elbow in a poor attempt to disguise it.  _This_ was Slughorn?  This balding, velvet lined walrus of a man?  _Goo goo g’joob_?  To think you’d been worried about _him_.  He looked like the rich, eccentric uncle that nobody in the family talked about anymore.  You could totally handle this guy. 

You stood politely to the side and watched as Slughorn clapped his other hand over Snape’s, patting it genially.  “Oh please, I’m not a professor of anything anymore.  Call me Horace.”  He spoke as if he and Snape were old friends, but the cold stoniness of Snape’s face suggested that this familiarity was only one sided.  Snape finally extricated his hand, covertly wiping it on the hip of his frock coat as Slughorn continued to prattle.  “I’ve been enjoying my retirement thanks to you!  But I must say, I wasn’t expecting to see you here.  I believe you haven’t attended a meeting since you graduated, correct?”

Snape appeared mildly uncomfortable with this line of questioning, but answered politely all the same.  “Indeed.  It was… never really my scene, as you can imagine.  However, I must confess I am not here on my own account.”  He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, which meant you could no longer eavesdrop from behind his shoulder.  Taking the hint, you sheepishly stepped around to stand beside him, and he held out his hand in your direction, as if presenting you to an esteemed panel of judges.  “I’m chaperoning Miss Gwendolyn Goode.”

You swallowed anxiously, not only because you were suddenly faced with the man you could possibly owe your future career to, but also because you were quite certain that was the first time Snape had ever said your first name out loud.  Your heart fluttered rapidly, but you were given little time to savor the moment, as Slughorn turned his attention to you, as if noticing your presence for the first time.  And you were pleased to find his expression to be one of sheer delight.

“Ah-ha!  So you’re the potions prodigy I’ve heard so much about.”  Slughorn held out a meaty paw, and you took it graciously as he shook your hand with both of his.  You were almost a full six inches taller than him, you realized as you peered down into his pink, whiskery face, while Snape towered him by a foot.  “I’m Horace Slughorn, my dear.  It’s an absolute pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

“Likewise!” you exclaimed cheerfully.  And you found that you didn’t even have to force it like you feared you might.  Slughorn’s merriment was oddly infectious, and you couldn’t help but be flattered by his words.  _Prodigy_?  Since when?  “Thank you so much for the invitation.  It’s truly an honor to be here.”

“Not at all, my girl!  Not at all!”  Slughorn patted your hand much like he did Snape’s (was it his signature move?) before finally releasing it, instead gripping the lapels of his burgundy smoking jacket.  You resisted the urge to wipe your hand off on your coat, as you didn’t have a nice Dracula cape to conceal the slight like _some_ people.  “When Albus told me of your impressive O.W.L. score, I knew you’d be a right shoo-in for the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers.”  He winked with his gooseberry green eyes, before leaning in conspiratorially.  “Been working on that résumé like I suggested?”

“Yes sir!”  A little thrill shot through you, a shiver of both anticipation and dread, as you pulled open your messenger bag to retrieve one of the copies Snape had made for you.  Would it be enough?  You’d worked so hard these past months, mastered so many potions that would make the other seventh year’s heads spin.  Would it impress your potential future employers?  Would it impress _Slughorn_?  This would be the first test, wouldn’t it?  You held out the sheet of parchment with all of your achievements and credentials (Snape had insisted on parchment, as it was more traditional), before proudly explaining, “I’ve been apprenticing under Professor Snape all year.”

The pleased look on Slughorn’s face as he took hold of your résumé suddenly morphed into one of utter shock at your words.  “Apprenticing?” he asked, sounding nearly gob smacked as he turned from you to Snape, who stood casually nearby with his arms folded across his chest, watching the entire exchange carefully.  “I didn’t know you took on apprentices, Severus.”  You had to hold back a laugh, because frankly you had felt the exact same way when Snape had first made the suggestion to you last September.

Snape for his credit did not miss a beat, as if expecting this criticism.  “I don’t.  But Miss Goode is a phenomenally talented witch,” he explained coolly.  “I’d yet to have a student worthy of the position before she came along.  She has exceeded all expectations.”  Ah, yes good.  You were blushing again.  Wonderful.  Hearing his unadulterated opinion of you never failed to make your head spin, but at least you weren’t bursting into tears this time, like you usually did when he praised you like this.  You were still deeply touched by his honesty though.  And it was obviously making you look good.

Slughorn looked quite impressed with this profession, and his earlier shock was once more replaced with an elated smile as he turned his attention back to you.  “Well, my girl, that sounds like a shining letter of recommendation to me!” he chortled, beaming down at the parchment you’d provided, before peeking towards your bag.  “Mind if I have a few more of these?  I’d be happy to hand them out on your behalf.”

Oh, you hadn’t been expecting that.  Was… that a good idea?  Or was that just going to indebt you to this man even further?  Glancing over to Snape for confirmation, he shrugged a sharp shoulder before nodding once, and you sighed with relief.  See?  This was why you _needed_ him here!  Opening your bag, you pulled out a few more pages of parchment, before holding them out for Slughorn to take.  “Thank you very much, sir,” you sighed appreciatively, practically breathless with your gratitude.

Slughorn smiled up at you as he folded the papers in half, sliding them into an inner pocket of his jacket.  “Please, it’s Horace!” he insisted, and you nodded your agreement, but knew you were going to keep calling him ‘sir.’  “Now, Severus, are you all checked in yet?” he asked, suddenly sounding much more businesslike than before.  Snape even looked somewhat apprehensive at the shift in tone.  “I’ve got a few past members of the Slug Club rounded up for a drink in the bar.  Even the Malfoy’s are-”

But you never got to hear what the Malfoy’s were, as Slughorn was interrupted by the abrupt call of a new voice, one that you could only accurately describe as _smarmy_. 

“My word, is that Severus Snape, or do my eyes deceive me?”

Everyone collectively turned towards the owner of the voice, and your face burnt scarlet as you watched Lilac Robes approaching from the direction of the fireplaces.  Oh, god damn it.  He was _handsome_ too.  He looked like he’d just stepped out of an Oscar Wilde novel, with his cupids bow mouth, dazzling blue eyes, and perfectly coiffed golden hair.  You swallowed thickly; he was an artist’s _dream_ , and you surreptitiously looked him up and down as he sauntered over.  It was clear by the flawless grin on his face and the way that he carried himself in those impeccably bespoke robes that he _knew_ he was gorgeous too.  The only blemish to mar his perfect façade was a smudge of black ash on his ( _beautifully sculpted_ ) cheekbone.  He _had_ been bent over in that fire for an awfully long time…

He was the absolute antithesis of Severus Snape, and you were left wondering how these two men could possibly know each other. 

“…Lockhart,” came Snape’s stony reply, and it took your brain an embarrassingly long time to give this name meaning because… what the hell?  Lockhart?  As in _Gilderoy_ Lockhart?  As in six time Dailey Prophet Best Seller Gilderoy Lockhart?  As in Jesus tap-dancing Christ how did you not _recognize_ him Lockhart?  He was only on the front cover of every single one of his books.  Of _course_ he was Gilderoy Lockhart!  In your own defense though, the real thing was just so much more _vivid_ than those sepia toned dust jackets could ever suggest.  It was a crime to photograph this man in only black and white.  Snape had said that Slughorn liked to surround himself with the best of the best, but you hadn’t been expecting a goddamn magical _celebrity_.  Despite being utterly star-struck, you were still deeply confused as to _how the hell these two knew each other_.

Snape remained entirely motionless as Lockhart came to a stop beside him, clapping a perfectly manicured hand onto Snape’s boney shoulder and greeting him like a childhood friend.  “Good to see you again, old boy!” Lockhart exclaimed, beaming from ear to ear as Snape’s eyes slid over to the hand on his shoulder, his face lined with contempt.  “I say, I don’t know whether to greet you as my old school chum or as my potions professor!” Lockhart continued, giving Snape’s shoulder a brotherly pat.  “I suppose not many could say they’ve had the pleasure of having you as both!”

Your eyes volleyed back and forth between Lockhart and Snape, and the depths of your disorientation only intensified at this bizarre proclamation.  They’d gone to school together?  You supposed that made sense, though it was clear that Lockhart was a good deal younger than your professor.  Indeed, young enough that at some point Snape had actually been his professor as well.  You tried to do the math, but Slughorn had apparently found his opportunity to insert himself back into the conversation. 

“Ah yes, that’s right!” Slughorn exclaimed, only looking a touch surprised by Lockhart’s declaration.  “I left before your final year at Hogwarts didn’t I, Gilderoy?”

“Indeed you did, Old Sluggy!” Lockhart confirmed with a melodious chuckle.  “Indeed you did.  And while leaving your N.E.W.T. students in Severus’s completely capable hands was a difficult transition after years of your excellent instruction, I still passed the class with flying colors!”  He winked to no one in particular, and Snape looked moments away from gnawing off the hand that was still firmly gripping his shoulder.  You feared that Lockhart would be lucky to escape this exchange with all of his fingers.  “But listen to me, going on and on about myself.  How are you _doing_ , old chap?” he asked Snape, giving his shoulder an eager shake.  But he didn’t wait for a reply, nor did he seem to actually expect one, because suddenly his attention was on _you_.  “And who, may I ask, is your lovely companion?”

Oh god.  Oh _god_.  You knew your face was highly colored by now, and everyone could _see_ it and this was _stupid_.  You knew you shouldn’t be so flustered but you were way out of your element.  When you’d come to this hotel, you had been under the impression that the guests attending the meeting would all be _normal_ people.  Sure, people you’d never met, but also people you’d probably never heard of.  You’d scanned Snape’s potions periodical on the train, mostly trying to memorize names under the published articles, considering the fact that you might very well be meeting some of them, and knowing their body of work would make a good impression.  You could deal with fussy old professors and newly minted healers.  You could handle normal people.  But none of them had been Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile winner three year’s running.  And _god_ , was it charming.  Not to mention you’d been unabashedly staring at his arse earlier and _Gwen, please! Focus!_

Lockhart at least didn’t seem the least bit perturbed by how obviously ruffled you were; maybe he was used to seeing it in other witches.  Slughorn was watching with a quiet amusement that made you want to groan out loud in your embarrassment.  And Snape… Well, Snape was making no move to answer Lockhart’s question.  Indeed, his earlier look of murderousness had returned, and all of that ire was trained directly at Lockhart, who had wisely removed his hand from Snape’s vicinity at last.  But now that hand was reaching out and taking yours.  And now it was lifting your hand to his face.  And now he was- oh god, oh my _god._

“Uhm.  I’m.  G-Gwendolyn Goode,” you stuttered out pathetically as he kissed the back of your hand.  You don’t think any guy you’d ever fooled around with had done something like _that_ , and it was a surprisingly effective move.  His lips were a whisper of silk against your skin and you had to swallow hard to keep from making any embarrassing noises. 

“It’s an absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Lockhart all but purred, brushing his thumb over your knuckles as he kept hold of your hand.  “I’m quite sure that _I_ need no introduction?” he teased with another wink, and you shook your head stupidly because no, no he most certainly did not.  “I’m surprised to see such a fresh young face at an event like this!  At least no faces younger than mine.”  And you couldn’t help but agree with him.  From what you’d glimpsed of the attendees and other guests, you were quite possibly the youngest person in the building.  But that didn’t mean you didn’t belong here.

“I’m a seventh year at Hogwarts,” you explained, becoming a little defensive.  Despite being momentarily flabbergasted by Lockhart’s presence, you still had a job to do here, and that was to impress everyone you came across.  Your future could lay in the hands of any one of these people.  Maybe even _this_ man...  _That_ ridiculous train of thought was derailed at the sight of Snape glowering from over Lockhart’s shoulder, and you quickly sobered up from your daze.  “And I’m, um, Professor Snape’s apprentice.”

“Are you really?” Lockhart asked, his voice suddenly dropping its pretense of interest, jarring you slightly.  He finally released your hand before glancing over his shoulder at Snape, one of his fine blonde eyebrows creeping up his forehead.  “You must be _quite_ the gifted little girl then,” he acclaimed, and just like that, the unctuous quality of his voice had returned.  Looking back to you, that flawless grin was back on his face, and he sidled up to you, throwing one of his arms over your shoulders and leaning in furtively, though he spoke just as loudly as before.  “I know from experience that Severus is no easy professor!  But of course, I learned a great deal in my time at Hogwarts, and I earned my place here in the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers.  Just a few years ago I gave a lecture on an antidote I invented and perfected for a slow-acting venom I’d been stricken with in Romania.  Though I’m sure _you_ read all about it in my second book, _Gadding with Ghouls_.”  He poked one of his fingers against your shoulder to mark his inflection, before waving the same hand dismissively.  “Ah, but that was six whole books ago!  Practically a lifetime.  Will you be attending Horace’s party tomorrow night?”

You were thrown off kilter by his sudden change in subject matter, as well as the arm that was still holding you firmly against his flank.  You were overwhelmed with the scent of English Leather, and it was a little disappointing that you were able to pinpoint the fragrance so acutely, because it smelled cheap and dated.  Surely Lockhart had better taste than drugstore aftershave?  You must have appeared bemused, because Slughorn answered the question for you by proudly piping in, “Yes!  She’s got an invitation.”

“Splendid!” Lockhart professed, before patting your shoulder genially and finally releasing you from his hold.  “Well, I have got to be off,” he spoke generally this time, straightening out his robes and vest unnecessarily.  “Can you _believe_ they misplaced my room reservation?  I’ve been chewing out my assistant over the Floo for the last 10 minutes.  So hard to find good help these days.”  He moved to Slughorn then, taking up the man’s hand for a shake, before patting it in a mirror image of what Slughorn tended to do himself.  “I’m afraid I’ll have to miss the lectures tomorrow, Horace, but I’ll certainly be back for your little shindig tomorrow night.  Wouldn’t miss it for the world!”  He returned his attention back around to you, and hit you with another wink and brilliant smile.  “And I look forward to seeing _you_ again, Guinevere.”

Your face fell flat along with your voice as you corrected, “Gwendolyn.”

But he hadn’t even heard you as he made his way importantly towards the front doors of the hotel, throwing a “Ta-ta!” over his shoulder and disappearing into the crowd.  He hadn’t even so much as _looked_ at Snape before exiting, and you were all left in an uncomfortably awkward silence at his sudden departure.  You weren’t sure how to feel then, having gone from awe-struck to uneasy in a matter of moments. 

“We should be getting to our rooms now.”  You jumped slightly, looking over to your professor, and you felt your heart plummet at the sight of the scornful lines still etched into his face.  It didn’t take a genius to guess that Snape was no Gilderoy Lockhart fan, but you felt like… well… you just wondered if maybe you had contributed to that disdain.  Was he mad at you?  Was he mad at Lockhart on your behalf?  Or was he…

“Yes, yes!  Of course!” Slughorn bustled, nodding with understanding as he stepped aside, no longer standing in the way of your path towards the elevator.  “You two get settled in.  But do consider coming down for that drink, Severus.  I’d love to catch up with you.”  He patted Snape’s elbow in a considerably more genuine gesture than Lockhart had managed to pull off, before turning to you.  “And Miss Goode!  I’ll see you tomorrow morning for the first lecture, yes?  Damocles Belby is here to talk about the advancements he’s made with his lycanthropy potion.  It should be _riveting_.”

You weren’t sure if Slughorn was being facetious, but your eyes actually lit up upon hearing this.  You’d been following the work of Damocles Belby ever since you’d skimmed that potions magazine in your fifth year.  Any trepidation that had built up from your interaction with Lockhart seemed to evaporate at the news that you might actually get to _meet_ Belby.  “Yes, sir!  I’ll definitely be there.” 

Slughorn smiled amiably, before nodding both to you and Snape with a cordial, “Good night, you two,” before making his way towards what you expected was the bar.  Silence settled around you again, and it was only the flutter of black from the corner of your eye that alerted you that Snape was stepping onto an elevator without you.  You spun and walked quickly in order to catch up with him, and your heart sank again as you glimpsed the dour expression that remained on his face.  He seemed… really upset.  Your anxiety continued to rise as you slipped into the elevator beside him, and you were left in true silence when the doors slid shut. 

You watched the little arrow on the floor indicator slowly pivot from ‘L’ to ‘1’, and the tension in the small space was making you feel queasy.  If you didn’t say something, you were going to be sick.  “You don’t like Lockhart?” you asked quietly, a question that was clearly more of a statement.  You didn’t look over at him after asking, keeping your eyes firmly on the arrow above the door, because you were apprehensive about what you might see.

There was a pause.  ‘1’ to ‘2’.  ‘2’ to… “He barely scraped by his potions N.E.W.T.’s with an Acceptable,” Snape answered monotonously, almost sounding bored, and you pressed your eyebrows together in confusion.  He’s… mad because Lockhart over exaggerated about his grades?  “In fact he barely got an Acceptable in _all_ of his classes at Hogwarts,” Snape continued, and you finally did glance over to him then.  His eyes were also trained on the floor indicator above the door, but his glare was still firmly in place, and his disdain was palpable.  “He was unremarkable and painfully average in every single thing that he did.  Which is why I remain utterly baffled by, and critically skeptical of, his success.” 

Your mouth fell open slightly as you watched him, and you got the sneaking suspicion that Snape was _jealous_.  You looked away from him then, down at your boots, and pondered this development.  There of course was the chance that Lockhart had been a poor student.  That didn’t mean he hadn’t absorbed any information over the course of his education.  Hollingsworth was a good example of this; he wasn’t a bad brewer at all, as long as Snape wasn’t actually in the room at the time.  Indeed, Lockhart had an impressive body of published works outlining his many successful ventures, some of which you’d actually read.  And sure, a great deal of it was _also_ probably exaggerated, as extravagance seemed to be one of Lockhart’s favorite things.  But taking a little literary liberty to pad the pages of a book wasn’t a crime, right?  You’d never gotten the impression that success and acclaim was something Snape cared about.  Indeed, he actually made a valiant effort to _ensure_ that no one liked him.

So… maybe he was jealous about something else.

The elevator came to a halt, the grates sliding open smoothly, and you followed Snape through them onto the fourth floor landing.  The décor mirrored that of the lobby, all lush carpets and flocked wallpaper and exquisite paintings, but it did not share the lobby’s scarlet hue.  Instead, everything on this floor was cerulean, and the shift in color palette alone made you feel calmer than before.  You wondered if the other floors were different colors as well.  You might have to explore later.  Following Snape down to room four-twelve, you pulled back the sleeve of your coat and sighed through your nose as you checked your watch.  It had gotten late, and you were dead tired.  But you were also starving.  You were wondering if the hotel had room service when you realized Snape wasn’t moving.  Wincing slightly, you turned your face to his, where you were pleased to find that his distain had vanished, but it was now replaced with apprehension.

“You’re sure about this?” he asked, point blank, holding up his golden tasseled key. 

Oh… Oh right.  You were still sharing a room.  That was a thing that never stopped being a thing.  You did your best not to mirror his trepidation, instead managing a little smile before nodding.  “Yes.  I’m sure.  I haven’t changed my mind in the last twenty minutes.  I promise.”  Snape’s uneasiness morphed instantly into exasperation, and you covered your mouth you mask your snickers as he rolled his eyes, turning back toward the door.  He slid the key into the lock, and you wondered if anything odd or magical was about to happen... and were a little disappointed to see that it was just a normal lock.  Boring. 

You followed Snape into the room, and the first thing you noticed was that it was dreadfully cold.  That warming charm from earlier must have worn off, and you pulled your coat tighter around yourself as Snape went about turning on lanterns and charming a fire into the fireplace.  Thank god.  As promised, the room did indeed have two beds, and you quickly laid your claim to the one closest to the window (and the fireplace), tossing your messenger bag onto to the duvet before moving over to the fire in an attempt to warm yourself.

You took a quiet moment to scan your surroundings.  It was a beautiful room, just as lavish as the rest of the hotel.  The carpet was a deep navy, and the space around the fireplace was sparkling marble.  The walls were a standard cream color, but the oil paintings of oceans and ships continued the lovely blue motif, as did the copper patina ceiling tiles.  The beds themselves looked unbelievably welcoming right now; large and plush with cobalt quilted duvet covers and multitudes of down pillows.  There was a small night table between the two beds, a writing desk across from them, and back towards the entrance were two doors that must lead to the closet and bathroom.  Oh god, a hot shower sounded good too…

Snape was removing his traveling cloak, and had enlarged a shrunken black leather weekender, which he’d placed on his own bed and was now stuffing the cloak into.  “I… think I’m going to take Slughorn up on that drink,” he explained stiltedly, and your face fell a little, but you nodded.  You tried not to feel slighted, that he wanted to turn around and leave already, but you thought you understood.  Maybe he was uncomfortable with the whole situation.  Maybe he feared that _you_ were uncomfortable with the whole situation.  Maybe he was still seething over the exchange with Lockhart.  Whatever it was, you didn’t mind if he went and got a drink; maybe it would loosen him up. 

Snape made his way to writing desk beside the fire, picking up a thin, blue book, with the words ‘The Atticus, Amenities’ stamped in gold onto the leather cover.  He held it out to you, and you took it curiously before he explained, “Room service.  Get something for dinner.  And order absolutely anything you want, regardless of price.  Dumbledore is paying for everything, and I am more than happy to _make him pay_.”  Your eyes widened as you flipped open book, a grin spreading over your face at this phenomenal act of pettiness.  Good to know that Snape hadn’t lost the ability to properly handle a minor inconvenience in the sassiest way possible.

“Yes, sir!” you assured him with a small salute.  Walking over to your bed, you sat down with a bounce as you scanned the menu, but you weren’t really gleaning much from it as you watched Snape adjust his frock coat in the mirror attached to the closet door.  “Will you be late?” you asked, trying to gauge how much time you might have to indulge yourself.  You were thinking fish and chips, and then a shower, before finally passing out for the evening.  Maybe you could be in bed before he even came back, sparing you the embarrassment of revealing your own yellow and black flannel pajamas with the little bees on them that your mother had given you because they were just so Hufflepuff.  Yeaaaah.  That sounded perfect. 

“I might be,” Snape answered honestly, which you appreciated.  “The…” he swallowed, and twitched his head awkwardly, as though he was loath to say what he had to say.  “The _Slug Club_ was Slughorn’s group of exceptionally talented or well-connected students back when he taught at Hogwarts,” he explained, and you set the small book in your lap as he now had your full attention.  What an awful name for a club!  “He mentioned that the Malfoy’s, who are old friends of mine, might be here, so… who knows how long this could go on for.” 

Silence ensued, and this time, you were the one who managed to get Snape to look at _you_ before you were inclined to speak.  Your mouth was hanging open, shock apparent in your features as he turned to face you.  “ _What?_ ” he demanded, his frown deepening.

“You… You have _friends_?” you asked in mock awe, but you couldn’t keep up the charade for long.  You squealed with laughter as you held up the amenities booklet as a shield, just as a decorative throw pillow was magically hurled in your direction. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A challenger approaches ;3c
> 
> Also #DumbledoreShipsIt
> 
> Thank you for reading!! Leave a comment down below and I'll love you forever!


	10. Dozey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While getting ready for Slughorn’s party, you contemplate the day’s events, as well as your feeling for your professor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn’t meant for this to be a transitional chapter, but it’s taken me too long to write, and the next chapter is going to have a lot going on. I figured I could publish this bit as a standalone. I’m sorry for the delay. I promise, the next chapter will be quite action packed.

You weren’t sure where you had gotten the idea that attending this event was going to be a breeze ( _mother_ ), but you regretted _everything_ as you slumped against the counter in your hotel bathroom, perched on the lid of the toilet as you attempted to do your makeup in a blusher compact mirror.  After a day of endless lectures and luncheons, all you wanted to do was take a bloody _nap_.  But the schedule of proceedings had been so rigorous that there just wasn’t any _time_ ; you had to be downstairs for Slughorn’s party in less than an hour, and you needed to make yourself look like you weren’t totally sleep deprived.  You wish you knew some beautifying charms, but Rimmel concealer and kohl would have to do.

The major contributor to your exhaustion was the amount of sleep you’d gotten last night, which was to say, absolutely fuckin’ _none_.  Your night had gone almost exactly as planned.  After Snape had left for his apparent _Slug Club_ reunion, you’d ordered room service as instructed (apparently just by speaking into the book?), before passing the time waiting for it by doodling your new acquaintances in your sketchbook.  Slughorn took to being caricatured quite well, but Lockhart had been a little more difficult to render as anything but beautiful. 

Before long, your dinner magically appeared on the writing desk; an absurdly large platter of fish and chips, along with a butterbeer and a complimentary scoop of chocolate ice cream that had been charmed not to melt.  Which was convenient because you’d decided to eat it while lounging in the luxurious claw footed tub you had been overjoyed to find in the bathroom.  It came equipped with taps that dispensed frothy rose scented bubbles, as well as water charmed to stay at the temperature you wanted it, which for you, was absolutely scalding.   _Perfection_.  After your soak, you’d given yourself a proper wash in the separate shower, before bundling yourself up in your embarrassing bumblebee pajamas and settling into bed.

Despite how exhausted you had been after a full day of travel and trivialities, when you finally got to crawl into that inviting blue ocean of pillows and duvets… sleep had eluded you. It was at this point you’d realized there was something missing from this flawless hotel experience; a television.  Not that there was anything in particular you’d wanted to watch, but a TV would make for a convenient night-light, as well as provide quiet, droning background noise.  The guttering fireplace was a poor consolation for both.  In the dim light of the dying embers, you had stared at the empty bed across the room, and with nothing to distract your mind, it wandered into the realm of disquiet.

You had replayed the events of the evening over and over in your head, but they inevitably came back around to your encounter with Gilderoy Lockhart.  And how murderous Snape had looked throughout the entire exchange.  Snape had claimed that he was critical of Lockhart’s success, but that had not been the face of a teacher who was skeptical of a cheating student.  That had been the face of a man who had walked in on his cheating _wife_ … and was ready to kill her _lover_.

But that was all speculation, of course.  There was absolutely no evidence to support it, and you were probably just seeing what you wanted to see.  And apparently what you wanted to see was Snape being jealous over _you_.  You tried to tell yourself that it made sense; certainly that it made more sense than being jealous of another man's achievements.  But even if it did make sense…  Even if it were true that you were the source of his envy, what would that _mean_ for you?  If your affections were somehow being returned, you didn’t think you could cope with it.  Because nothing could come of this.  _Nothing_.  You’d convinced yourself of that months ago, because it was safer than the alternative.

You’d buried your face into the cool pillows, fighting back foolish tears and trying to count your breaths, to will yourself to sleep.  And you did that for what felt like hours, tossing and turning in your borrowed bed with a mind full of circular thoughts, until the click of the hotel door opening and closing finally forced you to still.  You listened carefully as Snape moved about, and you realized from the muffled sound of his footsteps that he had _removed his shoes before he’d even entered the room_.  He didn’t want to wake you.  And you wanted to cry again.  He never made _anything_ easy for you.

Swallowing your emotions, you’d pretended to sleep, and you must have done a rather decent job of it because he didn’t try to call you out.  There were a few muttered spells, the crackle of the fire refreshing itself, the open and close of the bathroom door, before he finally settled into his own bed, and the room was enrobed in a comfortable stillness.  Having him here… having him _close_ …  It eased your mind.  It _always_ did.  And you finally felt like you had permission to stop resisting.  You were lulled to sleep by the distant sound of pages turning…

You felt like you had only just closed your eyes when you found yourself opening them again.  After being viciously assaulted by the light and sound of curtains being thrown open, Snape (already in full robes) informed you that it was 7:30 in the morning and you were expected to be downstairs in half an hour for breakfast and opening ceremonies.  You’d assented blearily, and he told you he would meet you in the lobby, before exiting the room and leaving you to your own devices.  And only when you were in the bathroom brushing your teeth a few minutes later did you realize that that had been his way of giving you privacy.

And you just… How.   _How_?  How was that man so damn _considerate_?  Every time he did something like that ( _he gave you tea, he let you sleep, he wrapped you up in his own bloody_ cloak), it made you want to burst into tears.  He was downright chivalrous.  And though he would certainly deny it until the day he died, he was also unbelievably _sweet_.  How were you just supposed to ignore all of this?  Everything he did made you fall a little further, and it made reminding yourself that you only had three months left with him cut even deeper.

So, stacking emotional turmoil on top of your sleep deprivation made the morning of meetings particularly agonizing.  You’d been sluggish to exit the hotel room but you finally made your way down to the lobby, where Snape had been waiting near the elevators, just as he’d promised.  After giving you your access badge, which you pinned to the front of your jumper, you followed him to the assembly room.  It was much larger than you had anticipated, and you’d been a little stunned by the grandeur of it.  The main ballroom of The Atticus was immaculate; about half the size of the Great Hall at Hogwarts, it was all marble floors and towering columns, walls draped with intricate tapestries, and a ceiling made entirely of glass, which allowed grey snowy sunlight to filter in to the massive space.  At one end of the hall was a crimson curtained stage, and set up before it were rows of velvet lined chairs.  It was just as lush and sumptuous as the rest of the hotel, and it was also full of _people_.

The Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers was much larger than you had originally been lead to believe.  You’d thought that perhaps it was strictly a British thing, but the diverse array of robe styles, skin tones and languages was indicative of an international organization, as was the sheer amount of people in attendance.  Your best approximation was that there were at least two Hogwarts Houses worth of people here, so… about a hundred and thirty people?  Holy shit you weren’t ready for this.  You had stuck close to Snape, following him like a duckling and allowing him to take the lead entirely.

Which he did not tolerate for long.   _He_ certainly wasn’t here to meet people.  That was _your_ job.  And while Snape seemed to know a great many people there (or rather, a great many people seemed to know _Snape_ ), he did very little talking with any of them when they approached.  He would occasionally pipe in to laude your talents when the conversation dictated, but _you_ were expected to steer the discussions yourself.  And bit by bit, your anxiety was finally replaced by your natural confidence.  It wasn’t so bad, really; most people seemed easily impressed by the fact that you were Snape’s apprentice.  By the time you’d made it to the breakfast buffet and procured a cup of coffee and a croissant, you’d met five new people, and given out two of your résumés.

Despite the number of attendees that fancied themselves to be Snape’s acquaintances, the only people to whom he showed any familiarity were the Malfoy’s.  Which was regrettable because you felt poor and flustered just _looking_ at them.  If you hadn’t already known they were married, you might have had the same reaction you’d had to Lockhart the night before.   _Both_ of them were really ridiculously good-looking; Mister Malfoy was chiseled alabaster while Missus Malfoy was burnished silk, and together with their platinum tresses and exquisite wardrobe, they looked like the power couple of the century.   _You_ meanwhile, felt like a pile of wet straw in comparison.  Why did Snape have to have such attractive friends?  Knowing they were purebloods, you had expected them to be haughty and snobbish, but instead they’d been exceedingly polite; they had saved two seats next to them for you and Snape, right up close to the stage, and had greeted you warmly when you were introduced, insisting on your use of their first names, which for once you obliged, because Snape used them too.  Apparently they had heard _so much about you_ last night, and you gave Snape a sidelong glance as you’d taken your seat between him and Narcissa.  Snape studiously ignored you.

Opening ceremonies were abysmally boring; all warm welcome’s and thank you’s and announcements of lecturers.  It was only made bearable by the mug of coffee warming your fingers, and the catty comments being whispered between the three Slytherin’s that surrounded you, critiquing everything from the presenter’s wardrobes to their past social faux pas.  Lucius was particularly savage, and you could tell why he and Snape got along so well.  Though you were left to ponder the origin of their lasting friendship; there seemed to be a considerable age gap ( _like you were one to talk_ ).

After the opening formalities came the lectures, and you were rather disappointed to find those _just_ as dreadfully dull.  You’d rather been hoping to learn something _new_ , and were astonished to find nearly everyone sitting around you listening with rapt attention, instead of experiencing mind-numbing boredom like you were.  And indeed, the only one who was looking just as jaded as you were, was Snape.  His arched brow when he caught your eye suggested that yes, he already knew all of this, and yes, he’d already taught it all to you as well.  You wondered why _he_ wasn’t on that stage, why _he_ wasn’t more forthright with his own goddamn brilliance.  Other people _had_ to know, right?  You couldn’t be the only one privy to it.  But indeed, even the Malfoy’s were marginally interested in the proceedings, so it seemed that Snape kept his own talent close to the chest, even among friends.  So where did that place _you_ in his circle of trust?  Oh, you couldn’t afford to ponder this in the middle of a hall full of people…

The only lecture you’d been even remotely interested in had been delivered by Damocles Belby, who had been remarkably charismatic, in comparison to everyone else who had spoken so far.  Not to mention… Well, you weren’t sure what you’d been expecting, but this grey bearded silverfox had _not_ been it.  Even if he hadn’t been speaking about the most interesting thing you’d heard all day, you… probably would have perked up just to _watch_ his address anyway.  While other presentations had been about improved techniques and advances in production, Belby was the only one who had been working on something entirely new: a cure for Lycanthropy.  His promising research from two years ago had developed by leaps and bounds, to the point where he was ready to begin testing on actual werewolves.  He was certain that even if the potion did not completely cure one of the affliction, it would at least make the subject in question less dangerous during the full moon.  He was getting ready to begin trials in Albania in the fall, a country with one of the highest werewolf populations in Europe, and would deeply appreciate any charitable donations in order to continue funding his research.

You hadn’t gotten to meet Belby, as desperately as you had wanted to.  Apparently he’d only agreed to attend for the length of his lecture, and had left before you managed to find Slughorn at the end of the day in order to ask him about it.  Slughorn seemed to pick up on your bitter disappointment, and offered to pass along your résumé to Belby, which… rather shocked you.  Your desire to meet Belby mostly hinged on your admiration for his work, as well as the influence his first article had on your decision to pursue potions and research as a career path.  You’d never even _intended_ to give him your credentials…  But now that Slughorn had mentioned it…  You took the old Hogwarts professor up on his offer, and penned a quick letter to add to the résumé, expressing your aforementioned esteem and regard.

And that had been that.  At the end of your first day you were an exhausted, starving, emotional wreck, and all you wanted to do was order room service and pass the hell out.  But here you were, smudging brown kohl around your eyes and trying to remember how to use an eyelash curler, because _now_ you had a party to go to!  Radical!  If you were going to do this, you were going to do it to the best of your ability.  You were also going to eat your weight in canapes and nick a few glasses of champagne if you could get away with it.

A sharp rap on the bathroom door caused you to jump, your blusher compact clattering to the counter as you smeared mascara across your nose.  _Oh, for fucks sake_.  You glared at the door, resisting the urge to shout out a caustic _‘What?’_ , before taking a deep breath and sighing slowly through your nose.  “Yes?” you called back as neutrally as possible, tearing off a piece of toilet paper and dabbing it against your tongue before scrubbing at the mascara mark. 

“Twenty minutes,” came the monotone reply, and you jumped again.  _Twenty minutes_?  Since _when_?  You scrambled for your watch on the counter, and god damn it he was right.  It was almost eight o’clock. 

“I’m nearly ready!” you lied, checking your face in the actual mirror above the sink, and deciding that would have to be good enough.  Your mother would call it a ‘natural’ look, which to be fair was all you knew how to do anyway.  Just a wash of soft brown on your lids, a whisper of mascara on your lashes, and of course, the concealer to cover up those attractive dark circles.  After scrubbing some blusher onto your cheeks with your fingers and putting everything back into your stained makeup bag, you slipped off the hotel robe you’d been wearing and contemplated the dress hanging on the back of the door.  After a little deliberation, you unhooked your bra as well, stuffing it into your messenger bag on the counter.

The dress was… dated.  A floor length evening gown of layered mint-colored chiffon, with long, sheer balloon sleeves, a belted sash waist, and a modest v-neck.  It _might_ have been revealing, if you’d had any cleavage to reveal, which admittedly, you did not.  Your mother had worn it when she was 17, and that easily made it a 25 year old dress.  It held up well, of course; it was an expensive garment, probably purchased for your mother by your grandparents (who had reportedly been loaded, not that you had ever known them).  But your mother always took good care of her things from her ‘past life’ as she liked to call it.  You hoped that the late fashion choice would fit in well among wizards; they always seemed about 20 years behind in the times anyway. 

After stepping into a pair of pink ballet flats, you shimmied yourself into the dress, pulling it up the length of your legs, before slipping your arms into the sleeves and sliding them up over your shoulders.  Tying the sash around your middle, the flowy skirt and cinched waistline gave you the illusion of an hourglass figure, but really, the neckline exposed nothing more than the light smattering of freckles across your collarbone.  The only caveat with this dress were the buttons.  Annoying, satiny little buttons up the back that just absolutely did not want to slip into the tight fabric loops, especially since you couldn’t even _see_ the damn things.  When you’d tried on the dress a few weeks ago in your dorm room, one of your girlfriends had fastened the buttons for you.  This… was a severe oversight.  There was surely a spell for this sort of dilemma, but you sure didn’t know it.

But if anyone _was_ going to know a spell for such a thing…

You jabbed a pair of pearl studded earrings into your lobes, swiped a dollop of clear gloss onto your lips, and checked your watch one last time, which was kind enough to inform you that you didn’t have _time_ to be thinking too hard about this.  Face burning, you sighed and bit the bullet, hiking the neckline of your dress a little higher up your chest as you cracked open the bathroom door.  Snape was not in your line of sight as you peered through the opening, which was sort of relieving. 

“Professor?” you called tentatively, wincing at the slight pitch your voice had taken on.  You heard the scrape of the writing desk chair against the carpeted floor, and you could feel the throb of your pulse in your throat.  “I… uh… require some assistance,” you finished lamely, quickly turning around and pulling your cascade of hair over your shoulder, so that your back was facing the door before he even arrived.

“You require assistance with _wha_ \- oh.”  His footfalls came to a sudden halt behind you, and you hoped the ripple of gooseflesh caused by his proximity wasn’t too obvious on your exposed back.  Your hands twisted in your hair and your bodice through a beat of tense silence.

“I um.  I thought you might be an authority on vast quantities of finicky little buttons,” you teased, hoping to lighten the atmosphere with a really terrible joke.  And it might have worked, as you received an amused snort in reply, but that had caused a puff of warm breath to skitter across your shoulder, and you suppressed a full on shudder.  You felt him move closer, and you awaited the tingle of magic to fasten up your dress.  So when you felt the brush of warm fingers against the skin of your lower back instead, you nearly screamed.  You did _not_ scream, but you _did_ jump, body twitching forward, and you heard an exasperated sigh behind you.  “S-Sorry!  Just… ticklish,” you mumbled, and you could practically hear his eyes rolling.

“Hold still,” Snape insisted, and you did your best to abide, squeezing your eyes shut and probably ruining your mascara but who _cared_.  You were just trying not to luridly sigh as the tips of his fingers skimmed their way up your spine with each tedious little button.  He had to know a spell.  He _had_ to.  The man didn’t button himself up like a Gringotts vault on the daily without knowing a more convenient method, right? 

Okay.  You realized you were blowing this out of proportion, and needed to get a grip on yourself.  He was just doing your buttons for god’s sake.  He was barely even touching you, certainly no more than he had to, and there was nothing intimate about it at all.  He was being as polite and reserved as you’d ever known him to be.  But even with a head full of logic, your _body_ was still rather interested in each accidental little touch, the sensation lighting your nerves on fire.

When he fastened the final button under the nape of your neck, you sighed a relieved “thank you” before releasing your hair and straightening out the gown.  Glancing at yourself in the mirror, you caught sight of him over your shoulder, and your breath hitched a little as your cheeks blossomed with fresh heat.  It was the first time you’d gotten a look at his party attire.  He looked about the same as he always did, but for three distinct differences; he’d lost the Dracula cape in favor of his usual well fitted frock coat and trousers, replaced his black cravat with an emerald green one, and he’d tied his hair back into a low, loose ponytail.  Your first absurd thought was that he looked like a founding father of the Americas.  Your _second_ absurd thought was that he looked absolutely _dashing_.  With his hair swept back from his face, he looked younger, less tired.  Almost… _handsome_.

You were staring.

He was staring back.

Difference being that you looked dumbstruck, while he looked amused.  “Why don’t you wear your hair back more often?” you blurted out dumbly, moving quickly to collect your bag and makeup from the counter.  The reply was merely an arched brow reflected back to you in the mirror, before he left the doorframe to walk back into the main room.  You collapsed against the counter, burying your face against your canvas bag and groaning in frustration.  Stupid, _stupid_ to let him catch you staring like that!  You thought you’d managed to play it cool the last few months.  You thought you were able to bypass this ‘doing-totally-dumb-and-embarassing-things-in-front-of-your-crush’ stage of attraction.  But being this close to him for this length of time was turning your brain to incoherent mush.  You couldn’t keep track of everything, of every nuanced little event that sent you spiraling into confusion.  You gasped and jerked your face up from the bag, looking into the mirror to check that you hadn’t just ruined all of the makeup you’d completely forgotten you were wearing.  Sighing, you used your fingers to smear away some misplaced mascara, but otherwise, everything was fine.

Exiting the bathroom and striding across the bedroom, you tossed your bag onto your bed, smoothed out your gown and fluffed up your hair one last time before turning to face your professor, who was regarding you from his seat at the writing desk.  You offered a meek smile, twining your fingers together.  “I’m nervous,” you admitted finally, deciding that just airing out your worries was preferable to squirming under his inscrutable stare.  It wasn’t far from the truth; you’d been acting like a nit since you got back to the hotel room.  Blaming it on nerves was as close to the truth as you would allow yourself to get.  Because you _were_ nervous.  Just not about the party. 

“I can see that,” Snape replied coolly, and you whined petulantly in reply because _that wasn’t helping_.  He merely grinned, shaking his head in mock exasperation as he eased himself up from his chair.  “You’ve got nothing to be worried about.  Despite your nerves, you’re actually quite a natural at this.  You did well today during the meetings,” he assured you, and you felt the tension tick out of you slowly, like a cooling engine.  Okay… that did help, quite a bit actually.  You closed your eyes and nodded, breathing deeply to try and balance yourself.  His confidence in you was… soothing.  Just his _voice_ was soothing at this point, and you clung to it like lifeline, though you feared it might just as well leave you to drown.  When you opened your eyes and peered up again, he was standing before you, extending an elbow in an imitation of gentlemanly fashion.  “Now, shall we?”

You stared for a moment, mouth dropping open slightly.  Your mind and emotions were at war with each other, and you felt the increasingly familiar sensation of wanting to simultaneously laugh and cry.  But, ultimately all you could do was laugh, just as you always did.  _Giggle_ , actually, as the case may be.  You outright giggled at the absurdity of it all as you snaked your hand around his arm, allowing yourself to savor the warmth of him.  “We shall,” you confirmed with a hint of teasing in your voice, as you finally decided it was time to throw away your pretense and just… _enjoy_ this, while it lasted. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is also going to be… intense. It’s going to have trigger warnings, and the rating will go up because of them. I’m mentioning it here so that you can know ahead of time. If you have any questions or concerns about it, please feel free to message me on Tumblr and we can discuss it.


	11. Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s Slughorn’s Party but you’ll cry if you want to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took entirely too long and I'm rly sorry about that, but I hope this chapter is action packed enough to be worth it. 
> 
> Also special shout out to sunshinepunches for giving Lucius his opening line. 
> 
> !!TRIGGER WARNINGS!! Please note that this chapter contains TRIGGER WARNINGS, and that the trigger warnings themselves might contain SPOILERS. If you want to see the trigger warnings, please scroll down to THE END OF THE CHAPTER in order to read them. 
> 
> General warnings for language, both suggestive and cursing, violence, blood-status discrimination, alcohol consumption

Horace Slughorn did not screw around when it came to parties.  While you had thought the event might take place in the same ballroom as the lectures, Slughorn clearly had something more intimate in mind, and had reserved the entire bar of The Atticus for his little soirée.  And apparently, he didn’t just give out invitations on a whim.  The entrance to the bar was cordoned off with a velvet rope, and a neatly dressed doorman stood to the side, checking tickets.  Tickets that you were very glad you had given to Snape to handle, because even if you had managed _not_ to leave them behind at Hogwarts, your dress didn’t have pockets.  You had clung to his arm the entire walk through the lobby, and had no intention of releasing it, even after you had entered the bar, which was full of chattering people, and was nothing short of pristine.  

Since you had arrived at The Atticus, you felt as though you were in a constant state of time travel, and tonight you were going to party like it was 1899.  Gleaming with polished rosewood, brass accents, and burgundy velvet, the lounge was a delicate balance of old fashioned and classically luxurious.  The bar itself took up one side of the room, with two velvet coated bartenders standing between the glossy counter and the back wall, which was backlit through frosted glass to show off the assortment of bottles that lined the shelves.  Among the standard bottles of dark whiskeys and clear vodkas, were more ethereal looking liquors and wines that you imagined must have been magic made.  Your mother would have a field day in a bar like this, and you swore to yourself you’d find a way to bring her here to experience it firsthand. 

Dotted throughout the main floor were tall standing tables, each draped in wine-colored cloth and sporting ornate floral centerpieces.  On the wall opposite the bar were several private booths with circular velvet benches and low rosewood tables.  Each alcove was framed with long, gauzy drapes held back by brass fixtures, and one of the four booths was closed off, obscuring its occupants from view.  And finally, towards the very back of the bar on a low stage, was an ivory coated jazz band.  Or at least, you _thought_ it was a jazz band.  You couldn’t quite pinpoint any of the music being played, nor could you identify any of the instruments being used.  But the atmosphere of the whole affair was one of class and sophistication, so jazz seemed like the proper assumption. 

You felt wildly underdressed in a sea of jewel toned dress robes, which apparently was the current fashion trend, some glittering with precious gems, others whispering with extravagant silks.  Were all witches and wizards this flashy, or was it just a _Slug Club_ thing?  You and your professor were positively _drab_ in comparison, and your mortification only deepened as you noticed that Snape was leading you directly towards the Malfoy’s, who were standing idly at one of the high top tables and looking like they ate peasants for breakfast.  As you approached, you couldn’t help but wonder how many innocent animals had died to make their ensembles.  Lucius wore lavish robes of white and gold, the collar trimmed with white and black ermine fur, while Narcissa’s dark, flowing robes were dripping with black, gold tipped feathers.  They were among the few who hadn’t adopted the vibrant trend of gaudy colors, and it made a bold statement; they looked absolutely stunning together in black and white.

Layered in pastel green with only pearl earrings in terms of jewelry, you felt decidedly out of place no matter who you were standing with, so might as well stick out from the crowd while in good company.  Snape finally extricated his arm from your grip as you neared the table, and you were ready to mourn the loss of contact, but he replaced it by settling his hand on the small of your back, a position you were becoming increasingly more comfortable with. 

You smiled a bit anxiously to the husband and wife at the table, and you were ready to receive arrogant looks from the pair of pureblooded aristocrats, but it was actually _Snape_ who got the exasperated once-over from Lucius.  “Severus,” he drawled, attempting to sound conversational, but his face read ‘disappointment’ in every line.  He lifted a heavy old-fashioned glass from the table, swirling the dark liquid within.  “Good to see you’ve put in the bare minimum this evening.”

You were rather taken aback by this blunt criticism of your professor’s attire, but Snape didn’t miss a beat as he deadpanned, “How many puppies did you have to kidnap for that outfit, Lucius?”  Your eyes skittered over the white fur with black spots draped over Lucius’s shoulders, and you clapped a hand over your mouth to keep from actually laughing out loud.  Snape gave your waist an indulgent squeeze before he finally released you, placing both of his hands on the table as you tried to suppress your giggles.

Lucius, however, did not seem quite so well versed in 1960’s Disney animated feature films, and looked positively bewildered by Snape’s comment, as well as your reaction to it.  His pale skin had taken on some color, because even if he didn’t get the joke, he _did_ know he was being made fun of.  “Wha-? How dare you.  I would never stoop so low as to wear _dog_ -”

“Would you like a drink, Gwendolyn?” Narcissa interrupted, completely unfazed by her husband and your professor’s squabbling.  You quickly pulled your hand away from your mouth, looking sheepish as you turned toward her, but she merely smiled enticingly as she held her own glass out to you.  “They have some positively divine elf made wine,” she explained, the coupe glass full of fizzing lavender liquid.  It smelled like elderflowers, and Narcissa smelled like Chanel No. 5 as she sidled closer to you.

You probably hadn’t needed to put blusher on, now that you thought about it.  You could feel your cheeks warming up all on their own now that Narcissa had made herself so close.  _God_ , she was beautiful, and you honestly weren’t sure if you were apprehensive, or attracted.  Both, probably.  You fumbled the glass from her fingers, glancing over at Snape, who was watching with some interest.  You’d been planning on _stealing_ some alcohol, not having it offered up to you so blatantly.  “I… uhm… I mean, I didn’t bring any mon-”

“Oh, please,” Lucius interrupted, snapping his fingers at a nearby waiter, who was all too happy to drop everything he was doing in order to tend the Malfoy’s table, the couple at the nearby buffet looking quite put out.  “It’s on my tab.  Don’t worry yourself.”  It was your turn to look bewildered.  Was this man really offering to buy you a drink… in front of his own wife?  But Narcissa didn’t even bat an eye, and Lucius glossed over the proposal as if it were nothing before returning his attention back to your professor.  “Severus?  Ogden’s Olde?” 

Snape looked entirely nonplussed at the offer, as if this were a regular occurrence between the two of them.  “Naturally,” came his easy reply, and the waiter scribbled the order carefully.  You felt Narcissa nudging the glass towards your lips playfully, and you suddenly remembered you were supposed to be doing something.  Taking a sip, you winced at the smudge of lip-gloss left behind on the pristine glass, but she hadn’t been wrong; it _was_ divine.  Sweet and cloying, but also herbal and flowery, like nothing you’d ever tasted in your life.  It was crisp and refreshing, and Lucius didn’t even wait for your verbal approval, the flutter of your eyelashes endorsement enough to order an entire bottle.  The waiter returned not long after with two firewhiskey’s, two fresh coupe glasses, and a squat purple bottle that popped loudly as its the cork shot across the room, much to the waiters dismay.  Soon you had a fizzling glass of your own, and it clinked delicately against Narcissa’s before you took your first proper sip, the bubbles tickling your nose.

As you nursed your drink, listening halfheartedly to Lucius and Snape’s continued bickering, you took an opportunity to scan the room.  You recognized a few faces, including a handful of the lecturers from earlier in the day.  Though you hadn’t been entirely interested in the other speakers, you made a mental note to try and introduce yourself to some of them.  The point of coming here was to make connections and possibly land yourself a job; the least you could do was pretend you were blown away by their presentations.  Flattery was everything at an event like this ( _probably_ ). 

Slughorn wasn’t hard to spot in the crowd either; flitting his way from table to table, he looked like some sort of rotund social butterfly, cocooned in an amethyst velvet smoking jacket.  At least he was wearing loafers instead of slippers this time.  You made another mental note to seek him out and thank him for everything once again.  You ultimately wouldn’t be here without him.  And if he really _had_ passed your information along to Damocles Belby… you very well might owe him a great deal.

Despite the sheer number of wizards in flashy robes, there was _one_ figure conspicuously missing from this spectacle of flamboyance.  You hadn’t seen Lockhart at all since you’d arrived.  He’d been rather adamant that he would be in attendance… Had he flaked out?  Or was he a believer in being fashionably late?  You didn’t have your watch on you, but you suspected it was nearing _foppishly_ late at this point.  Not that you were dying to see him again or anything.

“Now, Gwendolyn.”  You jumped slightly, returning your attention to Narcissa, who looked entirely too amused by your skittishness.  She’d moved a bit closer, leaning one elbow against the table as she clicked her black lacquered nails against the stem of her glass.  Though she still bore that charming smile, there was a glint in her eyes, something calculating and cold, that made you a bit nervous.  And your nerves were almost immediately justified as she explained, “Severus told us last night that you’re a half-blood.”

There was a clatter of ice as Snape’s drink thumped onto the table top, and you jumped again at the force of it, glancing towards the two men across the table.  Snape appeared utterly scandalized, his heavy brows pressed together as his eyes blazed, while Lucius looked like Narcissa was trying his patience, sighing with a withering roll of his eyes.  When the Malfoy’s had mentioned that they’d _heard so much about you_ _last night_ , you hadn’t been sure exactly what that entailed.  But considering the color creeping onto Snape’s sallow face, he’d perhaps been a little more thorough than intended.

“Did he,” you asked with forced politeness as your eyes flicked back to Narcissa, though it was clearly more of a statement.  You weren’t exactly upset with Snape, but you just weren’t sure why he had mentioned it to them in the first place, especially considering how conversations about your parentage with Slytherin’s _usually_ ended.

But Narcissa’s sultry smile never wavered as she reached out a hand, caressing her fingertips down the sheer fabric of your sleeve, her touch leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.  “Is that how you came about this charming little gown?” she asked, tilting her head coquettishly, and you shivered at the touch.  Whether you were scared or horny, you couldn’t actually tell.  But you at least you had the presence of mind to be defensive either way.  Because you knew a compliment when you heard one… and that had _not_ been a compliment.

“Yes it is,” you confirmed, reaching down and pinching the seam of the skirt between your fingers, holding it out to show off the flow of the chiffon draping.  It was a gorgeous dress, even if it was muggle made.  You actually felt quite beautiful in it, and damn it, you weren’t about to feel ashamed over that.  “It was my mothers.  Do you like it?” you asked, returning your gaze to Narcissa.  But you quickly dropped your skirt at the look in her eyes; a sharp, wicked look, like a predator that had just ensnaired its prey.

“So, she’s the muggle then?” Narcissa asked without pretense, and you felt your hackles rise.  You stood up quite straight then, taking on a defensive posture that put you a good three inches taller than the other woman (and you weren’t even wearing heels).  You weren’t going to be intimidated by _anybody_ , goddamn it.  She might have a pretty face, but you were starting to get over that, now.

“That’s right,” you answered confidently, a warning edge to your voice as you took another sip from your glass.  You were becoming rather tired of defending yourself and your mother against pure-blood elitists.  DeJarnette already gave you enough trouble back at Hogwarts.  You didn’t want to deal with this _here_ too.  Why were they even interested?  They weren’t petty school boys, they were grown ass adults.  And they were clearly close friends with Snape.  Surely they knew about _his_ blood status, right?  

“And what about your father, dear?” Lucius asked suddenly, and you turned to face him now, finding a much softer look on his features.  He, at least, didn’t look like he wanted to eat you alive.  Rather, he just seemed mildly curious, like he didn’t really care _who_ your mother was.  “I must say, I don’t recognize the name ‘Goode’, and I’m quite well acquainted with most wizarding families.”

You didn’t doubt that.  You shifted your stance, your defensiveness wilting now that you were faced with a slightly less aggressive interrogator.  “Goode is my mother’s surname,” you explained, a little hesitantly.  “My… uhm…”  It was only now that you realized what he’d actually asked you.  You rarely spared a thought for your biological father.  It had only ever been you and your mother, and you’d been quite content with that arrangement for 18 years.  “My father was never in the picture,” you finally settled on, draining your glass for the distraction, because it felt odd to refer to him as… _He_.  As if he were a real person out somewhere in the world.  Which surely he _was_ but… thinking of your father was like thinking of a fictional character, and to endear him to yourself in any way felt impossible.

Narcissa moved to refill your glass, and you allowed her.  She seemed a little put out now that her husband had taken over the cross-examination, that strange hunger draining from her demeanor.  But now it was Lucius who looked entirely stricken by your revelation.  “Never in the…  But he would be the one responsible for your wizarding half.  Surely you know who he _is_?” he asked warily, leaning in earnestly.  He was seemingly very concerned with your paternity, and it baffled you.

You glanced to Snape then, who appeared increasingly uncomfortable, but apparently unable to bring himself to interrupt.  Between the Mafoy’s line of questioning, and your professors escalating discomfort, you got the ludicrous impression that you were ‘meeting the parents’.  Were you being evaluated for something?  Worthy of association? 

Looking back to Lucius, you simply shook your head.  “Not at all.  Neither does-” you caught yourself, before confessing that your mother didn’t know who your father was either.  You didn’t need to give them another reason to think lowly of your mother.  You certainly remember what _DeJarnette_ had thought of her.  “I mean… I wasn’t exactly planned.”

Your slip didn’t seem to go unnoticed, a brief flicker of distaste marring Lucius’s handsome features.  “I see…” he murmured absently, before shifting his gaze to Snape, his icy eyes narrowed with suspicion.  “And Dumbledore never deemed fit to tell you?”  His question was aimed toward you, but the scrutinizing look he was giving Snape was… _alarming_.  Just what the _hell_ was he suggesting?

You set your glass down on the table, your fingers tracing over the curve of the stem, because your anxiety demanded you do something with your hands.  You looked back and forth between Lucius and Snape, trying to read whatever sort of silent conversation they were having with their shared glaring. “Why would Dumbledore-”

“Hogwarts uses some very old magic to discover young witches and wizards coming of age, in order to invite them to the school,” Snape cut in quickly, tearing his eyes away from Lucius to address you directly.  He face was stony and unreadable, except for his usual sneer, which didn’t faze you anymore.  You hung on to his every word, which he delivered much like a lecture, in full teacher mode.  “A relic from the age of Salazar Slytherin, this magic is also capable of distinguishing blood status.  His original intention was to bar muggle-borns from the school, but now it’s used to identify the exact parentage of each student, as well as determine whether or not a family will require a visit from a school representative to explain the situation.”

You stared at your professor, your own brows knitting together as you took in this information.  You remembered the awkward visit from Professor Quirrell back in the summer of 1983, when the shy young Muggle Studies teacher had arrived on your doorstep with a letter, and had used a magic wand to prove a point.  He’d explained that you were a witch, and that you had apparently gotten it from your father’s side according to their records.  And you remembered that your mother had barely even questioned it.  She’d always asserted that you were different, extraordinary, and from what little she remembered of her encounter with your father, there’d been something different about him, too.  Something that had attracted her to him in the first place.  Quirrell had mentioned that it was unusual to have to make this sort of visit to someone with a magical parent, but the Headmaster had insisted that you would require such a visit.

Dumbledore had known, all this time.  _You_ could have known, all this time.  And it made your stomach churn with doubt and apprehension to even think about.

You realized you’d been staring intently into your wineglass when you heard the unmistakable sound of displeased rich-person tutting.  You glanced back up to see Lucius shaking his head with a positively mournful look on his face.  “Seven years, and no one has thought to tell you your true heritage,” he lamented.  And it truly sounded like a lamentation.  As if not knowing ones origin was something worthy of the deepest sorrow.

“I never thought to ask,” you murmured, lifting your glass from the table and draining it.  It went down easily, sweet and syrupy, and you pushed away the empty coupe with a wince, your head already swimming a little.  You didn’t want to think about this.  Not right now.  This was a thing that hadn’t even _been_ a thing 15 minutes ago.  You sort of wished you could go back to when it _wasn’t_ a thing at all.

“Well, you ought to,” came Lucius’s sharp retort, and your eyes snapped back up to his.  He looked a little upset with you, which was… odd.  All of this was odd.  Why did he care so much about who your stupid dad was anyway?  Why did Narcissa care if your mother was a muggle?  It wasn’t like you’d ever see them again after this, right?  They were Snape’s friends, not yours. 

“Why?” you decided to ask, suddenly wishing you weren’t at this table at all.  Wishing you could head back up to your hotel room and bury your face in those blue pillows again.  More than anything, wishing you could press yourself into Snape’s side and have him tell you that you didn’t have to listen to the Malfoy’s any more.

“Well, it could be important, sometime down the line,” Lucius explained casually, as if the reason were oh, so obvious.  “Knowing what family you’re a descendant of could have… all sorts of benefits.”  He shrugged a shoulder, glancing over to Snape again as if seeking backup, but all he got was a steely glare from your professor, and Lucius rolled his eyes in return.  “I’m just _saying_.  It couldn’t hurt to _know…_ ”

You weren’t privy to any conversation that came after that.  You were aware that they were talking… or, well, _someone_ was talking.  Everyone was talking.  But it was all background noise now.  You could hear blood throbbing in your ears, the sensation muffling the rest of the sound around you as you stared down at the table, at the lovely centerpiece that sparkled with magical flora.  You were trying to count your breaths, to clear your mind, to push the idea of your father out of it, because you refused to have a malicious seed planted in your brain by some yuppie.  At least it _felt_ malicious.  What good could actually come of knowing who’d sired you?  What did it matter? 

You were feeling woozy.  Two glasses of wine without anything to eat had probably been a mistake.  Your body felt warm and heavy, but your head felt chaotic.  It was time to leave this table, you decided, maybe go socialize with someone else.  Literally anyone else.  And you didn’t care whether Snape joined you or not. 

“Pardon me,” you said quietly, dipping your head politely as you excused yourself from the table.  You could feel eyes on your back as you made your way toward the buffet, and you had your suspicions as to who they belonged to.  You were comforted that he was still watching out for you… but you were also a little miffed with _him_ , too.  He could have told them to mind their own business.  Could have risen to your defense.  Hell, he could have just _not told them_ you were a ruddy half-blood and saved everyone the trouble.  But then again, there was a chance they might have questioned you on it anyway.  They were certainly on a mission tonight.  Ugh, _god_.  Forget it.  It’s over with now.  Time for cake.

And dang, there was a lot of cake.  You were momentarily distracted from your emotional turmoil by the sight of mountains of food piled up on the large, round table punctuating the center of the bar.  Like everything else, the food at this party was no joke.  And you were pleased to see that no one was being shy about it either.  There was nothing worse than wanting to stuff your face, but feeling socially obligated to eat with your pinky out.  That didn’t seem to be a problem with the present company, so you experience no shame as you loaded up your plate with every available sweet and pastry on the buffet.  You were delighted to see that for every cream puff and jam tart and petit four you snatched up, a new one materialized in its place.  It was like something out of Willy Wonka, and you couldn’t be more thrilled.

You were contemplating which flavor of macaron you wanted to treat yourself with when Horace Slughorn appeared by your side, a cocktail glass in one hand and a broad smile on his face.  He looked over your plate with playful interest before asking, “Dessert first, my dear?”

You smiled warmly as you placed a yellow macaron onto your plate.  “Life is short,” you explained simply, and that earned you a good natured chuckle from the older man.  Slughorn was growing on you rapidly, and you found you quite enjoyed being in his company.  He was a worldly man who enjoyed worldly pleasures, and that was something you could appreciate.  You were pleased that he’d taken the time to come and visit you now, as he was a friendly face while you were feeling adrift.

“That’s my kind of philosophy,” Slughorn commented genially, before perusing the buffet himself and plucking up a chilled shrimp canape.  “Though I prefer the savories myself,” he explained as he took a nibble, and you couldn’t help but giggle, picking up one of your jam tarts and joining him in the indulgence.  “So tell me Miss Goode, how did you enjoy your first day?”

You took your time savoring your blackberry tart, because you needed the time to come up with something good.  Telling him that you were entirely disenchanted by the days lectures probably would not be a good look.  You dabbed your lips with a napkin, taking the chance to wipe off that damn lip-gloss.  “It’s been enlightening,” you conceded, deciding that wasn’t really a lie.  You certainly _had_ been enlightened as to how far advanced your own education was under Snape, and how far behind everyone else seemed to be.  You gave Slughorn a sincere smile then, reaching out and placing a hand delicately against his arm.  “I can’t thank you enough for… Just for everything.  For inviting me.  For giving me this opportunity.  It means a great deal to me.”

Slughorn beamed, and he patted your hand with his free one as he proclaimed, “No trouble at all, my dear.  It’s been a pleasure having you here.”  You slipped your hand away then, and he took a sip from his glass before tipping it towards you confidently.  “You’ll be going places, young lady.  I can feel it.  I’ll have you know that I owled your credentials off to Mister Belby this just this evening.”  He nudged you with his elbow then, and gave you a sly wink as he explained, “I slipped in a little note myself.  Just a personal letter of recommendation.  With any luck, he’ll take notice.”

You felt fresh heat crawl up your neck.  What exactly had his note _said_?  “Oh, you didn’t have to do that...” you began, but Slughorn merely shook his head warningly.  He clearly would not be accepting your protest, and you slumped slightly, bowing your head in submission to his kindness.  “Thank you, Horace,” you said softly, and he appeared quite pleased with your use of his first name.  Picking up another pastry, you looked the little lemon macaron over critically, but your sudden apprehension was not pastry based.  “Is he… I mean, is Mister Belby _looking_ for an apprentice?” you asked warily.  You hadn’t remembered him mentioning needing people for his research.  Just generous charitable donations.

“As a matter of fact, he is,” Slughorn confirmed as he peered down into his glass, swirling the last few chips of ice left in the dregs of his scotch.  “A few, actually, I think.  He mentioned something about assembling a team to assist him with the werewolf trials in Albania.  It sounds like he already has a selection of test subjects lined up, so he just needs extra hands on deck.  Folks to help with data collection, potion brewing, that sort of thing.”

Your heart was pounding rapidly.  You could feel it throbbing in your throat as you attempted to swallow your macaron, but your mouth was suddenly very dry.  You felt as though you were on the verge of something very important, and you were caught between being excited, and being frightened.  “Is… Isn’t that sort of dangerous?” you asked tentatively, your head bowed toward your plate but your eyes covertly watching Slughorn.

Slughorn appeared thoughtful for a moment, before taking a deep breath and puffing out his great big cheeks with a contemplative huff.  “I imagine that’s a risk you have to take, when working with werewolves,” he explained seriously.  But his brooding tone shifted as he caught your worried eye, offering a reassuring smile instead.  “Don’t let that discourage you, dear.  If I know Damocles, he’s taking every precaution to ensure the safety of all involved.  Mostly to cover his own behind.”  Slughorn chuckled at this, and you attempted to join him, but the sound caught nervously in your throat.  Slughorn drained the last of his drink before asking, “Have you ever been abroad, my dear?”

You shifted uncomfortably, fearing that your answer would be remarkably underwhelming.  “I can’t say that I have,” you admitted, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth.  The truth was you’d never even been out of _London_ before you started attending Hogwarts.  You’d been a homebody your entire life.  Was… that about to change?  Did Slughorn think you had that kind of chance?  “Though I… certainly wouldn’t rule it out.”

Slughorn smiled broadly again, and this time he was the one patting your arm amiably.  “That’s the right mindset to have, my girl,” he chortled.  His confidence in you was strange.  He barely even knew you, but he seemed so eager for you to succeed.  Even if it was just so that he could say he played a part in it.  “With your spunky attitude and quick wit?  Well, as I said, I sincerely believe you’ll be going places.” 

You smiled indulgently.  You don’t think you’d ever been described as ‘spunky’ before, but you’d take it.  “Like Albania?” you teased, but even as you said it out loud, it made your heart flutter and your spine shiver.  Could you _actually_ …?

Slughorn barked out a jovial laugh at this, and he nodded, tipping his glass towards you again.  “Like Albania,” he concurred, and gave you another wink before peering into the aforementioned glass, finding it deplorably empty.  “Well now, I think I ought to be making my way to the bar and continuing the rounds.”  He smiled up at you then, and reached his hand out for yours.  “You keep enjoying yourself, alright?” he insisted, and you smiled affably as you took his hand, giving it a firm shake.

“I will, Horace.  Thank you.”  Slughorn squeezed your hand, before trying to pat it awkwardly with the other one, which was still holding the glass, before he released you and tottered off toward the bar.  You watched after him fondly, but your smile wobbled a bit.  This party was turning out to be considerably more terrifying than you had anticipated.  Between the Malfoy’s giving you the third degree, and Slughorn suggesting that you actually had what it takes to work with a Potions Master like Damocles Belby, on a venture as important and possibly world changing as _curing lycanthropy_ …

You closed your eyes, your plate of pastries trembling slightly in your hands as you swallowed down your nerves.  You were unsure what to do, what to think, what to feel.  You’d come here to do exactly this, to make connections with people, to possibly find a job, to find a future.  But _Albania_ …  You weren’t sure you could even point it out on a map.  It was near Greece, right?  You knew nothing about the country, and now here you were, contemplating the possibility of leaving your home for this faraway place, to work on the project of your dreams.  You wanted to help people.  But were you willing to leave your life behind in order to do it?  You suddenly weren’t very hungry any more.  After setting your plate on the tray of a passing waiter, you were contemplating a trip to the ladies room for some peace and quiet when you felt an arm snake around your shoulders.

“I’ve been looking for you all night.”

You yelped, nearly jumping out of your skin at the voice and the touch, and the owner of both quickly disengaged, holding both of his hands up in surrender.  Gilderoy Lockhart appeared repentant, offering an apologetic smile that, despite its clumsiness, was absolutely gleaming.  “Did I frighten you?” he asked soothingly as he reached out a placating hand.  “I’m awfully sorry, I didn’t mean to.”  His tone was pacifying as he gestured towards himself, placing the fingertips of one hand against the chest of his sapphire dress robes.  “It’s Gwyneth, right?” 

You were clutching your own chest, trying to get your breathing under control.  What you suspected was supposed to be an attempt at a smooth move had just left you rattled, but the absurdity of his question made you bubble with laughter.  You hung your head a moment, gathering your wits up before peering back up to him with a wry smile.  “Just… Just call me Gwen,” you suggested, and Lockhart beamed, recovering quickly from his blunder. 

“Gwen it is,” he confirmed, reaching out to take one of your hands.  You didn’t pull away as he lifted it to his lips, and you felt that same giddy sort of flutter you’d experienced the last time he had done this.  Winking one of his charming blue eyes, he moved to settle his arm around your waist this time, leaning in close so you could properly hear him.  “I _have_ been looking for you all evening, you know,” he repeated, mouth close to your ear, his warm breath brushing over your neck.  “Can I buy you a drink?”

Your heartbeat began to pick up as you gazed about the room.  _Why_ had he been looking for you, exactly?  He’d said last night that he was looking forward to seeing you again, but frankly you thought he was being facetious.  He was _Gilderoy Lockhart_ for god’s sake.  He could have any woman he wanted; they practically threw themselves at him.  So why had he chosen _you_ …?

Okay, wait.  Pump the breaks.  He was just offering to buy you a drink.  That didn’t have to have any other implication other than wanting to talk to you.  Lucius had bought you a drink, and you were (pretty) sure that he hadn’t been trying to come on to you.  You didn’t see the Malfoy’s, or Snape for that matter, as you peered around the bar, and it didn’t take you long to come to a conclusion.  Fuck it.  You were entirely overwhelmed with everything that had happened, and you were ready to disengage.  You would gladly listen to Gilderoy Lockhart talk about himself for hours if it meant you didn’t have to think about anything for a while.  It might even be nice to talk with someone a little closer to your own age.  Turning your face up to his, you offered a tired little smile.  “That sounds lovely,” you accepted, and a look of triumph flickered over Lockhart’s face.

“Splendid!” he grinned, practically radiating with excitement as he slipped his arm away from your waist, taking up one of your hands instead as he guided you across the room.  “I’ve commandeered one of these charming little booths,” he explained, gesturing into one of the circular enclaves, his deep blue cloak draped across the bench.  “Have a seat, and I’ll nip off to the bar, shall I?” he suggested, though it clearly was not up for debate.  You’d barely turned to answer him when he was already taking off across the room.  You smiled warily again as you took a seat in the booth, his energy levels already wearing you out. 

While Lockhart was at the bar, you took a moment to scan the room again.  You really couldn’t see Snape or the Malfoy’s anywhere, and that made you a little anxious.  Where could they have possibly gotten off to?  Wasn’t Snape supposed to be watching you?  You did let out a little sigh of relief as you caught Slughorn’s eye from across the room.  He raised a hand to you in a polite little wave, and you returned it before you settled back into the squishy velvet bench.  At least _someone_ knew where you were.  Not that you were worried.  You were just looking forward to free drinks (oh please, let him be getting champagne) and zoning out for a bit while Lockhart regaled stories of his achievements. 

And you did perk up a little when you saw that Lockhart did indeed have two flutes of pink champagne in his hands.  You were a sucker for the bubbly, and you were excited to finally get what you’d been craving.  Lockhart pulled the dark, flowing curtains closed behind him as he entered the booth, and much like the phone boxes out in the lobby, the alcove was suddenly draped in pleasant quiet.  It didn’t block all the sound; you could still hear the band and the soft chatter of guests, but it wasn’t nearly as loud any more.  “Cheers, darling,” Lockhart gushed, handing you your glass before clinking the flutes together and settling down beside you.  He threw his arm over the back of the bench behind your shoulders, but this time he refrained from touching you.

“Cheers,” you answered, lifting your glass to your face and sniffing it first.  It smelled _heavenly_ , but also a bit strange, like no champagne you’d ever had before.  It was like almonds and chocolate at first, but on another whiff it became spicy and herbal.  And that just made you giddy, because you were having quite a good time exploring magical alcohol this evening.  You were already feeling the weight lifting off of you.

“So, how were the lectures today?” Lockhart asked, a hint of teasing in his voice as he crossed one knee over the other, looking quite luxurious as he lounged beside you.  “Were they dreadful, or just boring?”

You lowered your glass, your mouth falling open slightly at his candor.  He’d sounded oh so regretful yesterday when he’d told Slughorn he’d be missing out on the lectures.  But now you had the impression that he was just as jaded as you were.  “Dreadfully boring, actually,” you conceded, and Lockhart grinned as he took a sip from his own glass, as if he were in on some sort of inside joke.

“As I suspected,” he mused, swirling his glass as he leaned in towards you surreptitiously.  “I know I said they’d misplaced my reservation, but to be frank, I wasn’t too beat up about it.  Potions aren’t exactly my specialty, but I couldn’t deny Old Sluggy when he invited me to become a member.”  He shrugged a shoulder with a longsuffering sigh, as if it was such a chore to attend these sorts of things, to do such trivial favors for people like Slughorn.  Peering back down at you, he gestured toward your glass with his own.  “Drink up, darling.  You don’t want that getting warm.”

You rolled your eyes at his confession about not being too bent out of shape over missing the lectures, but having attended them yourself, you could sort of see where he was coming from.  Lifting the glass to your lips, you took your first sip of the fizzling champagne, and you were overwhelmed with a variety of sensations.  So many different flavors swirled around your mouth in that moment that you couldn’t possibly pin point each one, but somehow they all tasted incredible.  Lockhart was watching you closely as you drank, amusement etching his delicate features, and you got the impression that he knew you’d never had anything like this before. 

“Between you and me,” Lockhart continued, still staying conspiratorially close, as he spoke, glancing through the small partition in the curtains as if to make sure you weren’t being overheard.  “I much preferred Slughorn to Snape.  Even when we attended school together, Snape was always just so…” he waved the hand that was hovering over your shoulder vaguely, trying to come up with the correct descriptor, but the repulsed look on his face said it well enough.   “Well.  I’m sure _you_ know.  Do you really apprentice for him?” he asked incredulously, and at your nod of confirmation, he shook his head in disbelief.  “How on earth have you survived this long?”

You laughed a little at that, shrugging your shoulder as you took another sip.  “He’s… He’s not _so_ bad,” you yielded, feeling like you ought to be offended by his implications towards your professor, but finding yourself entirely disinclined to do so.  It was easier to just sort of agree with Lockhart.  “We work quite well together, actually,” you managed to defend, and you found yourself peering out towards the bar as well.  There was still no sign of Snape or the Malfoy’s.  You found that you didn’t particularly care anymore.

“That’s surprising,” Lockhart admitted, his nose still scrunched up in distaste.  “Not that I ever had classes with him, but I was under the impression that he was incapable of working with _anyone_.”  He looked for pensive a moment, before peering into his own glass and taking another sip.  “I mean, besides Evans.”

You bristled slightly, arching an eyebrow as you peered over your shoulder at Lockhart.  “Who?” you asked, and Lockhart looked abashed.

“Ah.  _Lily_ Evans,” he explained, and at your bemused expression, continued on.  “Old flame of his back in school, I think.  Or well,” he scoffed with a snort of laughter.   _“That_ might be stretching it.  If there were any flames between them, it was more like him carrying a torch for her.”  Lockhart drained his glass before sitting up straight, pulling out his wand from the breast pocket of his robes.  “It was painfully obvious that she wasn’t interested.  As if anyone would blame her.”  He tapped his glass, and it refilled instantly with more of the pale pink champagne.  Stuffing his wand back into his robe, he threw his arm across the back of the bench once more, but this time he allowed it to settle around your shoulders, shifting a little closer to you.  “Now he’s just a bitter old bastard, isn’t he?”

Your head felt like it was full of cotton and bees, a soft thrum buzzing through your veins as you settled comfortably against Gilderoy’s side.  You were much more lightheaded than you’d been before too, perhaps the champagne was a higher proof than the elf wine.  Gilderoy must have had a high tolerance if he was already on his second glass.  You were barely halfway through your own.  The name Lily Evans felt familiar to you, but no bells were ringing as you sighed.  “Yeah… he kind of is,” you agreed, your brows pressed together now as you thought about it.  That… wasn’t right.  He was kind to _you_ but… he was sort of prick sometimes too.

Gilderoy leaned in close, and you could feel him nuzzle the side of your head, heard him breathe in the scent of your hair as he cooed into your ear.  “Life is much too short to spend it pining, don’t you think?”  He tapped the bottom of your champagne flute with his fingers, and you lifted it obediently to your lips, taking another long swallow of the inexplicably flavored liquid.  “I’m much more inclined to simply seize what I want, when I want it.  It saves _me_ an awful lot of trouble.”  You shuddered slightly as he pulled away to place his glass onto the table, and used his now free hand to brush away a lock of your hair.  Dragging a knuckle over your cheek, he placed his fingertips under your chin and tilted your head, your hazel eyes locking with his glittering blue ones.  “What about you, darling?  What are the things _you_ want?”

You had to think hard, because your brain felt like it was floating on another planet somewhere.  What did you want?  You wanted to crawl into this man’s strong embrace and live there forever, but you couldn’t tell him _that_ , could you?  “I honestly don’t know anymore,” you murmured, trying to remember the other things that you wanted…  You had a reason for being here, right…?  It was still a pretty good reason too, so you grabbed onto it through the haze.  “I guess… all I really want to do is help people.”

Gilderoy chuckled, his breath warm and honeyed against your cheek.  “You sweet thing,” he murmured, and took to stroking the line of your jaw, like one might pet a particularly compliant kitten.  “I know what you mean.  That’s what I try to do, with my books.  First I help those remote little villages with their zombies or their trolls or whatever.  And then I help all of those poor, lonely women who read my books by adding a little fantasy to their lives.  It’s a _very_ rewarding occupation.”  You were hardly paying attention to his words, but your eyes were quite focused on his lips as he spoke.  When they finally shut up, they curved into that charming smile that was melting your insides.  “How’s the champagne?” he asked, and you huffed out a little laugh of your own, straightening up a little as you peered into your glass.  It was nearly empty now.

“Weird, actually,” you admitted, swirling it around and inhaling its aroma once more.  Now it smelled like all-sorts, your favorite candy from when you were a child.  “I can’t figure out what it’s supposed to taste like,” you admitted, lifting your face dreamily.  “It’s _fantastic_.”

Gilderoy’s smile was handsome and warm, and you found yourself snuggling closer against him.  “That’s typical for first time drinkers,” he explained, placing his hand over yours, holding the glass along with you.  “It’s charmed, you see.  Supposed to take on the flavors of your favorite things.”  He lifted the glass towards your lips, watching you with a hot intensity that made your pulse flutter in your neck, and… elsewhere. “Take another sip.  Really concentrate, now.  And tell me, what does it taste like, for you?”

Your eyes never left his as you drained the glass into your mouth, and you swirled it around your tongue before swallowing it down.  “Licorice,” you murmured, taking a deep breath to try and recapture the taste.  “Coconut.  And something else… spicy… clove bud?”  You wanted more, but Gilderoy was plucking the empty glass from your fingers, placing it on the table before returning his hand to your face, tracing your bottom lip with the soft pad of his thumb. 

“What an interesting palate you’ve got,” he teased, and he leaned in very close then, making that warm thrum pounding through your veins turn fiery hot and loud.  “Would you mind if I had a taste?”

His lips were outrageously soft as they pressed against yours, and you sighed contentedly as you slid your hands against his chest.  He tasted like champagne, the tart kind you were used to, as you relented to the prodding of his tongue.  His dress robes were satin, and you could feel the rise and fall of his chest through the smooth fabric.  The sound of his quiet moaning filled your ears and dropped straight down to settle between your legs.  You always liked the sounds that boys made…

You were panting softly when he finally pulled away, and he dragged his fingers through your thick hair as he allowed you to catch your breath.  “You’re _very_ beautiful, you know,” he murmured against the corner of your mouth.  “When I met you yesterday, I just _knew_ …  Shame about the company you’ve been forced to keep, but I’d be happy to provide you an escape from that.”  That made something stutter in your brain, and you blinked with confusion as you stared down as his cravat.  The company you’re forced to keep…?  Did he mean…?  “And as I said, I prefer to seize the things I want when I want them.”

His mouth was on yours again and he kissed… wetly.  And you knew that you didn’t _like_ it when guys kissed too wet, when they used too much tongue, when they tried to eat your mouth.  This wasn’t what you _liked_.  But you were powerless against it.  Your brain was trying to convince yourself that this… that Gilderoy… was _exactly_ what you liked.  And your mind smoothed over with that soft, fuzzy buzzing again.  This was what you _wanted_.  “Gilderoy…” you gasped as you felt a hand slide down your waist, gripping your hip firmly as he hoisted you into his lap.

“Mmm… My name tastes _awfully_ good on your lips,” he teased, nipping at your bottom lip with his teeth.  You sighed softly as the sensation sent another shockwave through your body, and you leaned in for more…

The sound of the curtains being throw open startled you both apart, and as you peered over your shoulder to confront the intrusion, your insides went cold with dread.  Snape was beyond livid.  He looked downright _lethal_ as he stood in the entrance to the booth, his dark eyes flickering from you, to Gilderoy, and then to the glasses on the table.  Gilderoy was the first to recover from his shock, and he sat up straight, shifting you back onto the bench seat, an arm still firmly around your waist.  He looked nearly as angry as Snape did, but there was also a flicker of fear behind his blazing blue eyes. 

“What the hell, man?!” Gilderoy demanded, but any further protest died is his throat as Snape bent over to pick up your empty champagne flute, holding it to his nose and inhaling deeply.  You glanced wildly between Gilderoy and your professor as Gilderoy started to disentangle himself from you, reaching for his wand in his robes, while Snape glared murderously over the rim of the glass. 

“Now, see here, Snape-” but Gilderoy was cut off by the deafening pop of shattering glass as Snape hurled the flute onto the table, glittering shards spraying over the rosewood surface and onto the floor.  You screamed then, pulling your legs up onto the bench as Snape shoved past you.  Gilderoy was brandishing his wand, looking panic stricken as he cried “Oblivi-!”  But Snape was nearly as quick with his fists as you were.  You shrieked again at the meaty thwack of Snape’s knuckles colliding with Gilderoy’s cheek, and the blonde man fell back onto the bench again, his eyes wide with fright. 

But Snape didn’t advance further on the other man.  Instead, he rounded on you, grabbing your arm so fiercely that you feared your sleeve would tear.  He hauled you to your feet before growling, “We’re leaving.  Now,” and shoving you through the curtains.  You were momentarily stunned, your cotton filled head throbbing, before you finally found the sense to be outraged.

“Hey!” you cried, whipping around to face your professor.  But any glare you could produce wasn’t even on the same level as the once marring his own features, and you wilted slightly as he took your arm again, attempting to get you moving as he pulled you across the floor. “Hey, let go of me! Gilder-” you tried to twist yourself out of Snape’s grip, turning to look back into the booth, but you found it startlingly empty.  Gilderoy was gone, Disapparated, the only evidence that he’d even been there being his glass of champagne, which had spilled out onto the table. 

You were tempted to make a scene as you were bodily dragged through the room, but no one was really paying much attention to either of you.  Apparently, enough of the commotion had taken place behind the silence charmed curtains that no one had even noticed something violent had happened.  The only worried look you received was from Horace Slughorn, who was hovering anxiously at the end of the bar as he watched Snape pull you through the doors.

Snape only relented his grip when he practically threw you into the elevator, following in behind you and slamming the button to close the doors and start the ascent to the fourth floor.  You were panting, your entire existence seething with outrage, and you finally exploded with indignation.

“What the _hell_ is your problem?” you cried, your hands tightening into fists as you glared at your professor.  But he entirely ignored you, leaning against the corner of the elevator as he stared intently at the floor indicator.  You were _not_ going to be _ignored_.  “Hey!  I’m talking to you!  What is your _damage_?”  You reached out and shoved his shoulder roughly, but he remained steadfast, your push barely even jostling him.  Fine.  If he wouldn’t respond to _physical_ jabs…

“You’re jealous, aren’t you?” you ridiculed, feeling angry tears stinging your eyes as you inserted yourself between Snape and the door, forcing him to look at you by proximity alone.  He returned your glare, but you saw the irritated twitch of a muscle in his cheek.  “You have been since yesterday.  Gilderoy showed you up and you’ve been moping like some sullen schoolboy ever since.  Then you barge in and ruin the only good time I’ve managed to have this whole bloody weekend?  You’re _pathetic_.”  The rage that coursed through you seemed very, very real.  But there was a queasiness forming in the pit of your stomach, and a throb of pain in your temple as you spoke.  You winced, reaching your hand up into your hair to clutch at your scalp, but keeping your glare as resolute as possible. 

Snape watched your every move carefully, and you wanted to smack him for daring to look so concerned.  You’d been doing _just fine_ before he showed up!  “And why, exactly, would I be jealous of Gilderoy Lockhart?” he hissed, his composure faltering just long enough for you to see your opening, to strike at the soft underbelly that his glowering armor didn’t reach. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” you rolled your eyes flippantly, crossing your arms over your chest as you counted off the ways.  “He’s young, handsome, rich.”  You sneered up at him, lowering your voice dangerously as you went in for the kill. “Just what have _you_ got going for you?”

The elevator came to a stop, and you once again found your arm pinched in a vicelike grip as Snape dragged you down the hall.  You protested, trying to pry his hand off of you, but before you could manage, you were being shoved into your shared hotel room and practically tossed onto his bed.  You made to stand right back up, but you were pushed down by a heavy hand on your shoulder.

“Sit down,” Snape commanded, and you crossed your arms defiantly as you grudgingly did as you were told.  Poised on the corner of his bed, you glared at his back as he dug through his weekender bag.  That seething hatred you felt was starting to dissipate, but left in its wake was a sick kind of worry.  What was going to happen to you?  What had happened to Gilderoy?  He’d just left you!  What if he came back and you weren’t there?  Why had he left you in the first place?

Snape spun around, and you jumped as he held out a thin glass vial, the dark amber apothecary glass masking whatever was inside.  You eyed it suspiciously as Snape demanded, “Drink this.”

You looked from the vial to your professor, before laughing incredulously.  “Why should I?” you questioned, and though your tone was petulant, your curiosity was sincere.  What kind of game was he trying to play here?

Snape gritted his teeth, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers.  “Because I _told_ you to,” he insisted, as if that was ever going to be a good enough reason. 

You stood up then, your eyes wide with vitriol as you tried to make yourself imposing.  “Why should I do anything you say?” you cried, nearing a shout as you took a step forward.  You were satisfied when Snape took a step back, but you realized all he was doing was blocking your exit.  “You _hit_ Gilderoy and then dragged me all the way up here!”  You tried to shove past him, but he reached out to grab your arm again, and you recoiled away from him vehemently.  “I want to go back right now!”

Snape leveled you with a harsh glower, but he kept his voice even as he spoke.  “Drink this, and you can go,” he promised, holding the vial out once again.  You were a little pissed off that he was trying to take the high road, acting all calm and collected like he hadn’t just been shoving you around for the past ten minutes. 

Frowning down at the vial, you considered this ultimatum.  At this point, you were willing to do almost anything to escape this horrible man, and get back to Gilderoy while you still had the chance.  “What is it?” you asked tentatively, your voice still harsh as you scowled back up at him.  There was another throb in the side of your head, and you winced once more.

Snape’s ire reduced even further, that worried pang flickering over his face once again like it had in the elevator.  “Sobering Solution,” he explained blandly, holding the bottle out this time, waiting for you to take it.  “You’re drunk, and I don’t want you leaving this bloody room until you drink this.  Do you understand me?”

You glanced from Snape to the vial a few times.  He wasn’t wrong.  You did feel drunk, or high, or something.  Your brain still felt like it was full of fluff, and the throbbing in your temple and the churning of your guts only made things feel worse.  You were able to recall just enough to know that Sobering Solution was typically stored in dark glass, as opposed to clear… And deep in the back of your swimming head, you remembered that Snape had never given you a reason not to trust him.

Snatching the vial from his hand, you pulled the cork out with your teeth, spitting out onto his bed.  Tipping your head back and drinking the whole thing, the bitter taste coated your tongue as it made its way down your throat.  And you were immediately aware of three things; this was _not_ a Sobering Solution, it was a Purging Potion, and Snape had _lied_ to you.

You swooned, dropping the glass to the carpeted floor as you stumbled back onto his bed.  The room seemed to spin, that aching pain in your head became a stabbing one, and the roiling in your guts became more pronounced.  “Oh…” you moaned, holding your hand over your mouth as you looked up franticly, delirious with panic as your mouth flooded with saliva. 

Snape was already standing at the door to the bathroom as he flipped the light on.  “I’m sorry, Miss Goode,” he apologized, all of his previous irritation having completely drained away as he cleared a path for you.  “I’m afraid this isn’t going to be pretty.” 

You felt another surge of agony wrack your stomach and your brain, and you stumbled over your dress as you dashed past him into the bathroom.  You skidded to your knees before the toilet, just in time for the violent upheaval of your insides to make its way out.  And with each retch of your body, with each splash of pink foam into the bowl, you felt your mind become your own again.  And you started to sob violently.

Your turmoil became worse as you felt long fingers brush against your cheeks, gathering your hair back and away from your face to be held loosely at the nape of your neck.  Then came the comforting sensation of a cool washcloth held against your forehead.  A lean body was pressed against your back, and calming words were being whispered into your ear.  “Shh… Get it out,” Snape murmured soothingly, even as your sobs grew harder and your retching began to taper off into dry heaves.  “You’re okay.”

But you weren’t okay.  You were so far from okay, you weren’t sure you’d ever be okay again.  Though the pain in your stomach had finally subsided, the torment in your brain persisted, and your anguished tears weren’t helping.  You felt a shift behind you, Snape releasing your hair so that he could reach over and flush the purge away, and you twisted yourself around at that moment, shoving your face into his chest as you clutched desperately at his waist.

“I didn’t mean it!” you sobbed, feeling absolutely wretched as your tears soaked into the fabric of his frock coat.  He’d gone very still under your hands, and for a moment you were horrified that he might be disgusted with you.  “Oh, my g-god,” you whimpered, lifting your tear streaked face to meet his.  He looked worried, his lips parted, perhaps on the verge of saying something, but you needed him to _understand_.  “I didn’t m-mean it!  Y-You know that, r-right?”  You raised your hands further, fingers gripping at his shoulders as you pulled yourself up to kneel before him.  “Please, look inside,” you begged, forcing yourself to look into his eyes, wanting to feel the skittery scrape of beetle legs against your skull.  You knew the risk, knew that this could ruin everything, but you had to let him know.  You _had_ to.  “ _Please_.”

He sighed heavily, looking away from you as he sat back onto the tile floor, bringing you along with him.  His long legs were sprawled on either side of you as you sat back on your knees between them.  As he wiped at your cheeks with the wet cloth, you glanced down to see the rag smeared with black mascara.  Tossing it aside, he reached out to push your hair back out of your face, cradling your skull in his hands as he stared intently into your eyes… where you felt nothing.  No beetles.  No invasion.  No pain.  You felt _nothing_ as he gazed down at you with so much concern in his coal black eyes.  “I don’t need to look,” he whispered, his voice thick and unsure.  “I know…”

You were trembling as your sobs started anew, and you didn’t even care at this point.  You buried your face into his chest again, and this time you felt his arms wrap tightly around you as you howled your grief against his heart.  You didn’t know how long it lasted, the emotional purge that you suffered after the physical one.  But Snape made no move to end the embrace until you were ready.  And that almost made you feel _worse_.  After all he’d done for you, all that he continued to do… and you’d… you said such _awful_ …

Your sobs had dwindled off to quiet sniffs and hiccups when he finally broke the silence.  “Think you can get up?” he asked quietly, and your entire body quivered at the thought of having to move.  You were exhausted, emotionally and physically drained, but you knew you couldn’t sit on this bathroom floor forever.  Sitting back on your knees, you gazed down at the wet patch you’d left on his coat.  But before you could start up a fresh wave of tears, he’d slipped his wand from his sleeve, casting a spell to banish all of the excess tears and mucus from your skull.  You were so startled by the sudden ability to see and breathe again, that you didn’t even bat an eye when he cast a second spell to accio your bag into the bathroom, and a third to swiftly undo all of the buttons down the back of your dress.  You shivered at the sudden exposure, but you didn’t feel uncomfortable in the least.

“I’ll give you some time to change,” he muttered quietly, pushing himself up from the floor, and reaching his hands out for yours.  You took them gratefully, and he hauled you to your feet, before setting down the toilet lid and letting you sit back on it.  “I’ll be right in the other room,” he promised, picking up your bag and setting it into your lap.  “Take your time… come out whenever you’re ready to discuss what happened.”

“What happened…?” you croaked, staring down at your bag clutched in your lap.  Snape sighed softly, placing both of his hands on your shoulders and squeezing comfortingly before turning away and exiting the bathroom, clicking the door shut behind him.  You thought you were going to cry by yourself now, but your head hurt too much, and more than anything, you did not want to be alone for longer than you had to be.  You made quick work of getting out of your dress, pulling on your stupid bumble bee pajamas instead.  You quickly brushed your teeth, desperately needing to banish the taste of sick from your mouth, and you splashed some water onto your face as well, scrubbing away the last of your makeup.  Your face looked swollen from crying, and you winced as you spotted a few burst blood vessels under your eyes, surely from the force of your purge.  With a sigh, you threw everything back into your bag, and shuffled out into the hotel room.

Snape was at the writing desk, wearing only his trousers and shirtsleeves now as he sorted out his bag, which he’d apparently ransacked in search of his potions kit.  Glancing up upon your arrival, he stood, taking your bag from you and setting it at the end of your bed.  When he returned, he held out three more small glass vials. 

“Calming Draught, Stomach Soother, and a Dreamless Sleep,” he explained, before adding, “If you think you need them.”  You smiled weakly, but gratefully accepted the Calming Draught and the Stomach Soother, swallowing them dutifully, knowing that they were exactly what he said they were this time.  Especially because you were pretty sure you had brewed them yourself.  You handed the empty bottles back to him, before placing the Dreamless Sleep on the table between the beds, and pausing as you stared down at it.  You didn’t want to take it just yet.  After a moment’s deliberation, you crawled on top of his bed, laying on your side and curling yourself around one of the decorative pillows as you settled in to let the potions work their magic.  Snape looked wary, but ultimately joined you on the bed, sitting a respectful distance away with his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, his hands folded in his lap as he leaned back against the multitude of pillows. 

There was a beat of silence as you felt the relaxing effects of the Calming Draught on your muscles, as well as your mind.  You didn’t feel so incline to burst into tears this time when you quietly asked, “What happened?”  You had a feeling you already knew… but you needed to hear it from him.

Snape sighed heavily, tilting his head back to stare up at the ceiling.  “Love potion,” he confirmed finally, and you shuddered to hear what you already suspected.  “And a shoddy one at that.  It gave you a headache, right?  That means it was weak enough for you to try and resist, but every time you tried, it would cause you pain…”  You peered up at him, thinking back to the moment he’d come in, how all it took was a whiff of your empty glass to know exactly what was going on.  He was so brilliant… knew exactly what to give you to end the potions effects.  Knew the most effective way to make sure you’d actually take it.  But the fact that you’d had to take it at all…

“Where were you?” you whispered, tightness creeping into your voice as you fought back fresh tears that the Calming Draught couldn’t fully suppress. 

Snape looked stricken as he stared back down at you, and you felt guilty for even asking him.  You knew this wasn’t his fault.  _He_ hadn’t given you a love potion, and he’d come to your aide before anything worse could happen… but… “Some chaperone I turned out to be,” he muttered softly, and you let yourself smile at his self-depreciation.  It was a little funny, in a morbid kind of way.  He hummed as he rubbed his forehead.  You wondered if he had a headache too.  “I’d dragged Lucius Malfoy out of the bar to give him a piece of my mind,” he admitted finally.  “The way he treated you, the things he said.  They were deplorable and I…”  He sighed again, slumping back against the pillows.  “I should never have told them in the first place.  After trusting you with my own…” he trailed off, closing his eyes as he recounted the rest.  “I couldn’t find you after I’d returned, and it was Slughorn who told me he’d seen you in the booth with Lockhart.”

You tensed a little, clutching the pillow to your chest even tighter now, staring down at the creases and folds in the duvet.  “I went in there willingly,” you whispered.  You weren’t even sure if he could hear you.  “I was mad… at the Malfoys.  And then he showed up and offered to buy me a drink and I just… I didn’t think it would hurt…  He was so harmless the night before, I didn’t think he’d…”  You were spiraling a little.  The Calming Draught could only do so much, and you pressed your face into the top of the pillow to staunch the flow of tears.

The bed shifted beside you, and you felt a warm hand against your arm, caressing it soothingly, if a bit awkwardly, as if he didn’t really know how to do this.  It was such a stark contrast to the death grip he’d held it with before.  “This wasn’t your fault,” Snape said firmly, and you lifted your face from the pillow with a sniff.  “Administering a love potion without consent is a criminal offence.  You could press charges.”

You knew that.  It’s something you learned quite early on in potions class, when some stupid girl had worked up enough courage to ask Snape about how to make them.  But… “Who’s going to believe me?” you whispered miserably, peering up at your professor.

“What?” Snape asked, his hand stilling on your shoulder as he was startled by your question.  But he really shouldn’t have been.

“Who the hell is going to believe me?”  You pushed yourself up with both of your hands, getting on the same level as your professor as you explained.  “He’s a celebrity.  I’d gone in there with him of my own free will, and everything else happened behind closed, silence charmed curtains.  All of _my_ evidence just got flushed down the loo.  And…”  You knew this was serious, but you found yourself smiling ruefully.  “And you fucking _decked_ him, Professor.  He might press charges against _you_.”

Snape looked… sick.  He looked absolutely sick to his stomach as he reflected on your words, as if he knew what it was like to be the victim of some great wrongdoing, and knowing there was absolutely no chance of the perpetrator being even so much as reprimanded.  He looked like he wanted to say something to the contrary, to try and convince you that pressing charges, that telling someone, was the right thing to do, but every time he opened his mouth, he closed it again.  Finally, he was the one to flop back onto the bed, almost pouting.  “He deserved it.”

You smiled a little wider, and you settled back onto the mattress yourself, pulling the pillow back into your arms as you curled yourself around it.  “I can’t argue with that.”

There was another beat of silence, but this one was surprisingly comfortable.  Maybe it was the Calming Draught, but for some reason you found yourself clinging to the… well they weren’t _good_ things, but they were positive things.  Snape punching Lockhart had been pretty spectacular.  Snape coming to your rescue like some kind of pissed off mama bear had been… well, admittedly, it had been a little painful, but now that you were on the other side of it, it had been quite courageous.  And Snape believing you, being righteously angry on your behalf…

God.  You _loved_ him.

The silence stretched, and you were wondering if you ought to transfer yourself back over to your own bed, when Snape rolled onto his side to face you, a frown tugging at his lips.  “Gwendolyn…  What do you want to do?” he asked broodingly, and you felt your breath catch in your chest at the use of your first name.  You hadn’t gotten a chance to savor it yesterday… but this was so much better.

Staring down at the duvet, you considered his question.  You were happy, right here, right now.  This was quiet.  Calm.  Comfortable.  But you knew this wouldn’t last forever.  You knew that the sun would rise eventually.  The thought of waking up in the morning to go to another bloody lecture, to face the Malfoys, to have to look anyone in the eye who may have seen you enter that booth with Lockhart...  “I want to go home,” you said finally, your voice tight.

“Home,” Snape repeated, sounding decidedly uncomfortable at the suggestion.  “To your mother?”

Oh… Was that an option?  God, you would have to tell her about this, wouldn’t you?  Would it be easier to do in person?  Over the phone?  Through a letter?  Ugh… no… You didn’t want to think about that.  You didn’t want to _do_ any of that just yet.  The thought of sinking into your mother’s arms and telling her all that had happened terrified you, because you knew she’d want you to do something about it.  But you just _couldn’t_ …  Shaking your head, you gazed back up to your professor.  “No… Home to Hogwarts,” you clarified, and Snape nodded with understanding.

“We can catch the morning train,” he promised you softly.  “I don’t think there’s any reason for us to overstay.”  You sighed with relief, and you could feel your exhaustion taking over in the proceeding lull of silence, your eyes drifting closed to the sound of the crackling fire in the hearth.  They only flickered open at the touch of his hand against your arm again, as he tentatively asked, “What else can I do for you?”

You smiled softly, blinking your eyes blearily before they slid shut again.  “Just stay here with me,” you whispered.  “Please.”

There was a pause, and you felt the mattress dip as he properly laid down beside you, his hand still on your arm as you felt sleep tug at your mind.  “Alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!TRIGGER WARNINGS!!: Gwen is going to be slipped a potion without her consent. This potion is going to be used to manipulate her. There will be dub-con kissing and touching. None of this is perpetrated by Snape. There will also be vomit.


	12. Flight of the Dreamer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 7th year. Snape calls you to his office on the last day of school, and you mentally prepare for what lies ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was unexpectedly difficult to write for me. I just want to throw out there that I base Gwendolyn’s path to recovering from her trauma on my own personal experience. I know that everyone deals with trauma differently. This is just a reflection of how I dealt with mine. 
> 
> Warnings: A review of the things that needed trigger warnings in the last chapter. Not coping with that. Then finally coping with that. Brief violence. Language. Feels.

You were ending your seventh year at Hogwarts the same way you had started it; pacing the dungeon floor outside of the potion’s classroom at the crack of dawn, and anxious out of your mind.  The difference being that you’d actually been invited this time, which was a little nerve-wracking in its own way.  You arrived early, earlier than Snape’s note had recommended, because you were overwhelmed with the fear that there might not be enough time.  In fact… time was nearly up.  After your meeting with your professor, you would go to breakfast.  And then after breakfast, you would be getting on the Hogwarts Express. 

Probably for the last time.

You had been dreading this very moment for three months.  After the absolute shit show that the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers had turned out to be, you’d returned to Hogwarts only to come face to face with the reality of having to sit your N.E.W.T.’s.  The tests were fast approaching, but frankly, you’d been grateful for the distraction; pouring yourself into your studies had been an excellent excuse to not think about things.  Things like how Gilderoy Lockhart had violated your mind and body, and you had practically invited him to do it.  Or how much worse it could have been if Snape hadn’t shown up when he had.  Or about the hideous things you had spat into his face while your mind had not been your own. 

Except… you actually ended up thinking about those things _constantly_.  You held up fine, at first.  For a couple of weeks after your return, you carried on as if nothing had happened.  You went to classes, you studied for N.E.W.T.’s, you joked around with your friends.  You were as strong and resilient as ever.  You put yourself on auto-pilot and made it through, because if your façade so much as chipped, the whole thing would come crumbling down.  Which was exactly what happened, when the flashbacks began. 

They crept up on you gradually, but increased in frequency as your stress became unbearable.  You would be doing something mundane, like walking to class, or sitting in the library, or worst of all, trying to sleep.  And for absolutely no reason other than the fact that the human mind is want to latch on to suffering, you’d be back there.  You’d be back in that little booth, with Lockhart’s tongue down your throat, his hands on your body, reeking of cheap cologne.  You’d be back on the elevator, feeling cramped and claustrophobic as you shoved and shouted at your professor.  You’d be wallowing on the bathroom floor, begging for another invasion of your mind, because _anything_ was better than him hating you.  You would agonize over how things might have been, had you acted differently.  Done this, said that, gone there.  But you were powerless to change _any_ of it.

You’d inevitably end up riding out your panic attack in a bathroom cubicle.  Even if it started while you were in bed, you’d always end up in the loo.  Your bed was too cozy for these types of feelings; it was too safe and warm to be tarnished with this sorrow.  You were drawn to the tight quarters, the privacy of a latched door and a silencing charm.  There was something inexplicably calming about the cold discomfort of sitting on a tile floor in the dark, letting your dark thoughts spill out of you like an overflowing sink.

You weren’t coping well.  You weren’t coping _at all_.  And it started to affect your waking life.  You would be distracted during classes, anxious during free hours, and you truly couldn’t remember the last time you’d gotten a good night’s sleep ( _Yes you could.  His hand had still be on your arm when you woke up_ ).  Under normal circumstances, the dramatic shift in your usual easygoing demeanor would have been cause for alarm, would surely have conjured up your friends concern.  But the truth was, _everybody_ was stressed.  Every seventh year looked just as haggard and exhausted as you did.  All of your girlfriends were pulling their hair out over projects and exams and the beginning of the rest of their lives.  Even Lawrence Hollingsworth had backed off of his pursuit of you, because he didn’t have the time to spare for romantic endeavors.  Nobody had taken notice of your profound suffering. 

Well, of course, no one except…

All it had taken was for you to cancel _one_ private lesson, and you’d been called down to Snape’s office during Herbology and asked to explain yourself.  You’d gotten defensive, reminding him that he himself had told you to alert him if you ever needed a night off, but he countered that he wasn’t concerned that you wanted to cancel a brewing session.  In fact, he was well aware that you’d been flaking out on him for weeks.  You’d skipped many of the free periods you were supposed to spend in his classroom fulfilling the requirements of your apprenticeship, making the excuse that you needed the extra time to study for your other classes.  And Snape had tolerated this, understanding of the plight of the seventh year.  He knew you had other exams besides potions.  But this time had been different.  Because this time, you had sent him an _owl_ in order to cancel your lesson, instead of simply telling him in person.  And he thought that was an awful lot of trouble to go through, just to avoid having to speak to him. 

That’s all it had taken for you to completely fall apart.  And Snape seemed to have been expecting it, perching himself on the arm of your chair (your _chair? when had you started thinking of it as yours?_ ) and rubbing your back in soothing circles as you wept into your hands.  When your tears subsided enough for you to be coherent, he’d offered you a Calming Draught, and you’d accepted it readily.  He seemed to have a stash of them on hand, and you had a feeling that he did this sort of thing on the reg.  Indeed, you’d gotten that impression back at the hotel too, when he’d held back your hair and pressed a cool cloth to your face as you threw up your guts.  He was responsible for a house full of Slytherin’s, after all; he probably got more practice taking care of children than he cared to admit. 

After downing the potion and pulling yourself together, you reluctantly explained what was troubling you, admitting that you were, in fact, avoiding him, because every time you saw him, you’d be knocked over by the wave of memory.  The flashbacks, the endless loop of ‘what if’s’, the isolation you were experiencing, because you felt like you couldn’t confide in anyone.  Besides him.  Because he already knew.  And even if you had confessed to someone else… what if they doubted you?  Your story?  What if they blamed you instead?  Lockhart was famous; what if they took his side?

It had been his suggestion that you finally talk to your mother about it.  You felt guilty that he could so easily surmise that you hadn’t told her yet; you’d been lying to her in your letters for weeks.  At first you’d thought that everything was fine, that you were okay, so it wasn’t worth talking about.  But as it became a bigger problem, you felt like it was too late to admit that you’d been keeping something this monumental from her all this time.  Writing to her about it now would feel cold, impersonal, like you didn’t trust her, just like you didn’t trust your friends.  Snape had told you that this wasn’t something that could be dealt with through notes. 

So you had a vague idea of what was awaiting you when you were summoned to the Headmaster’s office two days later.  What you hadn’t expected was to hear yelling from above as you made your way up the spiral staircase.  And you were even less prepared to enter the office just in time to witness your mother popping Professor Snape across the cheek with an open handed slap, leaving an angry red welt on his otherwise ashen face.  Vivian had been shouting, that it had been his job to protect you, to keep you safe.  Snape, meanwhile, looked resigned to the lashing he was receiving; he’d barely even reacted to being hit, and stood stoically as your mother continued her verbal attack.  Behind all of this commotion, Dumbledore was seated behind his desk, stroking his pet phoenix absently and making absolutely no effort to intervene.  That was, until you started crying in the doorway, and the room went quiet before you suddenly found yourself wrapped up in your mother arms. 

Through hiccups and tears, you told your mother everything.  Snape had already explained the details of what had occurred at The Atticus, but you insisted that there was more to it than just a sequence of events.  Like how Lockhart was famous in the wizarding world, so your hands were tied in terms of seeking justice.  How you had felt okay when you’d first returned to Hogwarts, and you didn’t want to burden her with something you thought wasn’t going to be an issue.  And most importantly, you insisted that Snape _had_ protected you.  That he _had_ kept you safe.  Because you had entered that booth on your own, but Snape had been the one to lead you out of it.

Your mother had… _reluctantly_ apologized to your professor, but Snape declined to accept it, because he believed he’d deserved it.  Your mother sure didn’t argue, but you tried to protest that, before Dumbledore had finally spoken up, insisting on giving you and your mother some time alone, before leading Snape out of the office with a promise to return shortly.  In the soft silence of Dumbledore’s office, your mother had many questions, and you answered them dutifully.  You had been right, that she was going to want you to do something about this, to try and press charges or talk to the press, but to you, that wasn’t the solution.  To you, that just might mean having to see Lockhart again, having to tell your story over and over again, having to suffer through people doubting you and calling you a liar… and your mother eventually conceded.  She turned focus to the more pressing matter instead.

She’d pulled you down onto the stone floor with her, making you sit cross-legged as she held your hands tightly in the space between you.  You were familiar with this set up, and you closed your eyes obediently as you started counting your breaths.  Vivian did the same, and soon your head felt tingly and empty, your focus trained on your breath, and the pressure of your mothers hands wrapped around yours.  She reminded you that the thing that was haunting you was in the past now.  You were fretting over something that you literally couldn’t do anything to change.  And acknowledging that it was something completely out of your control might help you actually let go of it.  It was time to start living in the present moment again, and emptying your mind like this, when you felt overwhelmed with emotions and memories, was going to help you focus on that.

It had seemed overly simple at the time.  But the thought lingered in your mind long after Dumbledore had returned, after the tearful goodbye with your mother, after the exhausted trudge back to your dormitory.  But as you shed your clothing and slipped into your four-poster, despite it being the middle of the day, you felt like for the first time in a long time, you might actually be able to sleep.  It was as though a great burden had been lifted from you, and now that you were no longer required to keep it aloft, you were finally allowed to rest. 

Things slowly got easier from that point forward.  The flashbacks still came, but now when they did, you were more prepared for them, your mother’s words repeating over and over in your head as you fought against them.  You still hid in the bathroom, and you still cried, but it was no longer the uncontrollable wailing of a broken woman, but the hot, silent tears of someone who was frustrated with their own reactions.  You would breathe.  You would count the tiles on the floor.  Sometimes you’d cast small spells, the childish ones that conjured birds or created meaningless sparks, but were pretty to look at.  You would eventually remember that you were here, now.  And not back there anymore.

Snape had never mentioned anything about it again, much to your relief.  You still couldn’t believe that his first time meeting your mother, whom you’d always spoken of so admiringly, had resulted in her _smacking him in the face_.  Though, it might have made it clear where you’d gotten it from, and if he thought anything about it, he sure didn’t let on.  He never asked how you were holding up, and honestly, you appreciated it, because that made you think that he could see exactly how much better you were doing already.  He’d put you right back to work when you finally started showing up for your apprenticeship duties again, and he didn’t miss a beat when you arrived for your first private lesson in two weeks, putting you right back into the thick of it like you’d never even been gone.  He treated you the same as always, and it helped you to start feeling _normal_ again. 

And just as you were getting used to that quiet normalcy again, your academic career at Hogwarts had come to a close.  Exams were over.  Your apprenticeship had ended.  You’d taken your N.E.W.T.’s, and with any luck, you would be able to start calling yourself Gwendolyn Goode, Potions Master any day now.  Your scores hadn’t been released yet, but it was only a matter of time.  And to top it off… you’d been offered a job.  You’d asked Snape to confirm if _that_ letter had been real and not a prank as well.  What were you going to do without him there to validate all of your correspondence for you?

…What were you going to do without him?

“Miss Goode?”

You stumbled slightly as you abruptly halted your pacing, turning your head to see Snape standing in the doorway to his classroom, already looking entirely fed up with your clumsiness this early in the morning.  Glinting black eyes, an artfully arched brow, mouth curved into an unimpressed sneer.  You were going to miss this.  You smiled awkwardly as you set yourself to rights, taking a tentative step toward him, trying to regain some poise.  “Professor Snape.”

He rolled his eyes and pressed his back against the door frame, and you knew an invitation to enter when you saw one.  Slipping past him through the door, you stepped into the entirely empty potions classroom, startled to find all of the tables pressed against one wall, the stools stacked up on top of them, the cauldrons slotted below.  It made the room feel empty and hollow, and you felt your heart clench strangely.  It reminded you of a funeral, one with an open casket, like something you didn’t wish to be seeing.  So you didn’t linger.  Walking quickly through the unfamiliar space, you entered his office well before he did, and you were pleased to find all of the specimens and jars right where they should be.  That was more like it.  Your ran your fingertips over the back of the worn, brown leather chair you had come to start thinking of as your own, before taking a seat and waiting for him to join you.

Taking a seat behind his desk, there was a moment where you simply stared at each other, sitting in this position you’d both been in countless times before, in a place you may never see again.  The air felt dense and thick, like cold honey, but not nearly as sweet.  You were wondering how you were supposed to breathe like this, when he finally broke the suffocating silence.  “So,” he began, sounding casual as he leaned back in his chair, his hands in his lap as he crossed his legs at the knee.  “When do you leave for Albania?”

You relaxed, settling back into your own chair with relieved sigh at his conversational tone.  You weren’t sure if this had been the purpose of asking you down here, but you were more than happy to talk academics and careers.  It was familiar territory.  “As soon as my N.E.W.T. scores are released,” you explained, remembering the copious amount of letters you’d been exchanging with Damocles Belby over the last month.  Those poor, poor owls.  “It’s just a formality, I’ve been told.  I’ve already been guaranteed the position.”  You glanced back up to him with an arched brow of your own.  “Apparently I received some _outstanding_ references.”

Snape looked entirely nonplussed by your accusation.  He merely shrugged a sharp shoulder as he droned, “Pomona Sprout _is_ rather influential, after all.”  You didn’t even try to hide your grin, though Snape did a fairly good job at suppressing his.  While Professor Sprout had indeed been one of the references you’d listed, along with Professors Kettleburn and Sinistra, you had a feeling their recommendations hadn’t been the ones that had set you apart.  Though, you couldn’t rule out that Slughorn might have had a say in it, too.  Snape looked satisfied with your explanation though.  “Very good,” he acknowledged, nodding his head once, his tone dipping down to one of genuine approval.  “You’ve worked very hard to get here.  You deserve it.”

You weren’t going to cry this time.  That had already happened when he’d first congratulated you on being recruited to Belby’s research team.  But you couldn’t fight the way your throat clenched.  “Thank you, sir,” you muttered, letting your gaze fall to the stone floor, because you didn’t think your heart could bare it if he looked at you any more earnestly.

And perhaps he sensed your tenuous emotions.  His baritone slid right back up to casual as he remarked, “It’ll be a shame to see you go, really.”  That was… a rather bold thing to say, and you felt composed enough to lift your eyes from the ground.  Snape’s head was tipped back against his chair, staring up at the ceiling in contemplation with his fingers steepled against his chest.  “I don’t think I’ll live long enough to see another student as brilliant as you grace these halls.” 

You smiled, despite yourself; while that sure sounded like a compliment wrapped up in a self-depreciating bow, there also seemed to be a genuine lack of faith in the next generation of students that was entering Hogwarts.  You felt a pang of sympathy for the man, but on the other hand, it wasn’t like he was helping the situation by being a ray of sunshine or anything.  “Don’t sell yourself short, Professor,” you teased back.  “They can’t all be complete dunderheads.  And besides, you aren’t _that_ old.”

Both of his eyebrows shot up his forehead then, and you really had to fight not to giggle as he leveled you with a disbelieving leer.  “ _Cheeky_ ,” he accused simply, though he too seemed to struggle with his a smirk as you fought against your own.  “You’re lucky it’s too late to take away any more house points,” he warned you.  And that seemed to sober up the both of you.  An unintentionally grim reminder that time was running out.

You still weren’t sure why he’d called you down here.  Easy banter and friendly ribbing was all well and good.  You were going to miss matching wits with him dearly.  But whatever true agenda he had for requesting this meeting, you had a motive of your own.  Scraping your teeth over your bottom lip, you didn’t wait for the chance to convince yourself this was a dumb question before blurting out, “Can I write to you?”

The silence that followed was… disconcerting, but at least he seemed to be considering the question.  At the very least, he was considering _you_ quite intensely, as if trying to discern your motivations.  However you didn’t feel him digging around in your head, which was alright, but your heart sank as a frown tugged at the corners of his mouth.  “Do you really think you’ll want to spend your precious free time writing to your old potions professor?” he asked, and you were tempted to remind him again that he wasn’t that old.

But he’d already called you out for your cheek once.  So you simply smiled and shook your head.  “I’ll find the time” you assured him.  In fact, even if he’d told you for some reason that you _couldn’t_ write to him, you probably would have done it anyway.  You were on the cusp of adulthood.  You were mere months away from packing your bags and portkeying your entire life to another country.  You were stepping into the darkness, and the light you had been following all of these years… was going to be left behind.   But maybe, if you could maintain this one connection, with the one thing that kept you feeling safe and grounded more than anything else… perhaps you’d be able to navigate this fresh wilderness. 

Snape still looked puzzled by your request.  You couldn’t just _tell_ him that you were afraid of facing the rest of the world without him there to protect you.  And he seemed reluctant to peer into your mind to parse the truth, your skull remaining decidedly beetle free.  But he finally relented, deciding not to outright question your motivations as he nodded his head.  “As you wish,” he conceded, and you smiled with a small sigh of relief. 

Your personal mission accomplished, all that was left was to wait for him to finally reveal _his_ reason for wanting to see you, and you didn’t have to wait long.  He pulled open one of the drawers of his desk before announcing, “I have a gift for you.”  You sat up a little straighter in response, your attention thoroughly garnered and your curiosity piqued as he retrieved a small, black velvet pouch from the drawer.  “Consider it a graduation present.”

You stared at the small bag, reminded simultaneously of the pouch of crystals your mother had given you in your first year, as well as the black velvet ribbons you always used to tie up the pens you’d been giving him for years.  The thought made your smile wobble slightly, but you kept it together long enough to press your luck one last time.  “After all these years…” whispered dramatically, adding a pained little choke to your voice as you held your hand over your heart.  “You’re finally going to give _me_ something in return?”

Snape’s mouth fell open, his brows pressing together with incredulity.  He scoffed, leaning forward and propping his elbows on his desk, pointing an accusatory finger in your direction.  “You know, I’m definitely not going to be missing that _sassy_ attitude of yours,” he pronounced, and you actually _laughed_ at that.  Like he was one to talk!  Who did he think you _learned_ it from?

“Yes you will,” you assured him, your cheeks actually starting to ache from how widely you were smiling.  Snape was doing his damnedest to appear thoroughly unamused, but you saw his own scowl tremble dangerously.  Maybe he was going to miss this too.

“Do you want it or not?” he deadpanned, dangling the black pouch from one of his fingers, and you managed to subdue your amusement, though you couldn’t to completely quell your smile.  On the one hand, you knew he was teasing you again, but on the other, the threat was a real possibility.  Best not to risk it.

“Yes, of course.  My apologies,” you replied quickly, doing your best to appear prim and contrite as you straightened up in your chair, trying to convey the picture of innocence.  He rolled his eyes at you, but you didn’t miss his own smirk as he held out the bag for you to take.  Standing from your chair, you stepped the short distance to his desk, and took the small pouch from his hands.  Your mirth fell away quickly as your fingers brushed together.  He’d gotten you a _gift_.  The gesture itself was uncharacteristically thoughtful of him.  You couldn’t imagine what it might be.  Staring down at the small black bag, you ran your thumb over its velvety softness.  “Should I open it now?”

“I insist upon it,” he replied, leaning back in his chair to watch as he folded his hands in his lap once again.  Glancing from him to the bag, you gently pulled at the cinched opening before reaching inside, where your fingers come into contact with something cold and smooth.  Tipping the bag over, a small, glass phial fell into your palm.  You knew what it was almost immediately, but your brain was struggling to cope with its reality.

“Holy _shit_ ,” you gasped uncouthly, and paid absolutely no mind to the snort from across the desk as you stared down at the bottle disbelievingly.  It was no more than an inch in length, straight edged and rounded at the bottom, its cork stopper sealed with a dripping of black wax.  Inside, its pearly contents glistened with an opalescent brilliance in the lamplight.  It was captivatingly beautiful to look at, but you still couldn’t believe…  “Are these… are these _really-?_ ”

“Phoenix Tears,” Snape provided for you, and you couldn’t pull your eyes away from them as you rolled the phial between your fingers.  So they _were_ real.  “You’re familiar with their properties?” he asked a bit louder, as if trying to catch your attention and bring you back down to earth. 

“Of course I am,” you stammered, borderline insulted that he would even insinuate that you somehow didn’t know what Phoenix Tears did.  It was knowing _exactly_ what they did that made their existence in this little bottle seem so unfathomable.  “How did…? Where did you…?”  You realized you couldn’t form a proper enquiry without sounding ungrateful or distrustful.  You had no doubt that these were the genuine article, Snape would never provide you with a fake, but the sheer _magnitude_ of this gift…  Jesus Christ how much did these _cost_?  Was it even _possible_ to buy them?  “These are _extremely_ rare,” you muttered, finally lifting your gaze to meet his.  And you winced, because he almost looked _angry_ with you.

“Indeed they are,” he agreed, nodding his head toward the bottle you still held reverently in your hands.  “Which is why I must insist that you keep them close, and preserve them for the sole purpose of saving your own life.”  He hooked his folded hands over his crossed knee as he leaned in towards you, gazing up at you with such a fierce intensity, you didn’t dare look away.  “They may not reverse the effects of a werewolf bite,” he explained, his voice grave with warning.  “But they _will_ keep you from dying from one.”  Settling back into his chair, he let out a heavy sigh, the resentment etched into his features slowly smoothing out.  That anger hadn’t been meant for you, you realized, but you weren’t sure _what_ had caused it.  Glancing from your face down to the bottle, he added in a softer tone, “I sincerely hope you’ll never have to use them.”

He was protecting you.

 _God_.

You were leaving the country.  You were going away.  You had no idea when you’d come back.  If you’d ever see him again when you did.  And _still_ he was protecting you.  You felt your heart throb painfully in your chest at the implications of this.  Suddenly, you didn’t want to leave.  This was a mistake.  Leaving this man behind was a _mistake_. 

But what could you do? 

“Thank you, sir,” you whispered, your voice thick as you dropped your gaze to the tiny phial.  You didn’t want to cry.  Your own tears weren’t nearly as valuable.

“Don’t thank me,” Snape drawled, and the return of his customary baritone forced you to glance up.  He was waving a hand dismissively toward the little bottle, a harsh glint in his eyes.  “ _You’re_ the one who insists on working with some of the most dangerous creatures on the planet.”

Your mouth fell open, and you weren’t sure if he was being serious or facetious this time.  You had the presence of mind to be defensive, and you straightened up to your full height as you protested, “I want to-”

“-help people,” Snape finished for you, his tone taking on a more pacifying quality as he held his hand up in surrender.  “I know.  But please, don’t get yourself killed in the process.”  It was such a genuine request, so earnest and sincere, that you felt that painful throb behind your ribcage again.  _Don’t leave him.  Don’t go._   He offered you a smirk then, almost a half-smile, and you readied yourself to absolutely _hate_ whatever he was about to say next.  “It would be a massive waste of all the hard work I put in to teaching you.”

You were right.  You hated it.  He really had a lot of nerve calling _you_ sassy.  You smiled vexedly as you shook your head, slipping the bottle back into its velvet pouch and before sliding it securely into the pocket of your skirt.  “I won’t get myself killed,” you promised.  And you’d just opened your mouth to say something sassy in return, like how you’d certainly hate to squander all of _his_ hard work, when the sound of the school bells clanged through dungeon, signaling the start of breakfast.  Your heart shot up into your throat as you glanced up at the ceiling.  _Ask not for whom the bell tolls…_

The silence that followed after the bells settled down was nothing short of oppressive.  It was only broken by the creak of leather and wood as Snape rose from his chair, stepping out from behind his desk and hovering a few feet away.  You quivered, your heart pounding loudly in your ears as you tried to will time to stand still.

“This is it then,” you whispered, voice cracking as you fidgeted in place, unsure what to do, where to look, when to go.  You couldn’t just _leave_.  You _couldn’t_.  There was only one option that felt right, and though it terrified you, you closed your eyes and took a steadying breath.  “I’m… going to hug you,” you announced feebly, unable to open your eyes in order to gauge his reaction, far too afraid of finding rejection there.  “You’re welcome to stop me but… I rather hope that you don’t.”  You cracked open one eye, and you had to snort as you found him peering down at you with that artfully arched brow, possibly judging you harshly, but not outright refusing you either.  He wasn’t going to stop you, so you didn’t hesitate as you stepped forward, sliding your arms around his waist, under the draping of his cloak.  You pressed your face into his chest ( _teakwood, coriander, clove_ ), unable to look at him as you murmured against his heart, “Thank you… for everything.”

It took a few moments, but you eventually felt his arms encircle you.  You didn’t hold back your tears now, and you felt him sigh under your cheek as your tears soaked into his coat.  _Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go._  You weren’t sure how long you stood like that, wrapped in the warm embrace of black wool and clove-bud, but he was the one who eventually ended it, placing his hands on your shoulders and squeezing them lightly.  You took the hint, letting your arms drop reluctantly to your sides as you gazed up at him, tears still streaming down your face.  He reached a hand up automatically, but hesitated a moment before swiping his thumb across your cheek. “It’s been an honor and a pleasure having you as a student, Miss Goode,” he intoned softly, his own voice turning thick.  “Be safe.”

Despite your best efforts, the tears continued to fall, though they were with gratitude instead of regret.  You raised your own hand, placing it gently against the back of his, keeping his fingers against your face as you whispered, “You too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading uvu!
> 
> Edit: THIS IS NOT THE LAST CHAPTER!!! I didn't mean to scare anyone XD but no, in fact this is JUST at the half way point. As I have it planned, DS has about 13 more chapters to go uwu!


	13. Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While staying in Albania, you strike up a correspondence with your former professor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @green-oasis and @rxmuz on tumblr for helping provide the names of the other apprentices uwud!
> 
> How to cram 3 years into 1 chapter: letters!

July 14, 1990

Miss Goode,

Since you expressed a desire to keep up a correspondence with me, I’ve taken it upon myself to send the first owl.  It just so happens that I have your N.E.W.T. scores in my possession, and I hoped it might soften the blow if you were to hear the bad news from me.

It is my deepest regret to inform you that you did not, in fact, surpass my N.E.W.T. score in Potions, as you had been so very eager to do.  However, I am pleased to report that you matched me by receiving perfect marks.  (I don’t know where you got it in your head that you could somehow exceed a perfect score.  Arrogant much?) 

I’ve included my copy of your results in the envelope.  I don’t know if it will help to expedite your departure for Albania, but I thought it might be worth a shot.  Your official documentation should be arriving within the next two weeks.  I hope you aren’t feeling too put out by this overwhelming setback.

-Professor Snape

P.S. Congratulations, Potions Master.

///

July 15, 1990

Dear Professor Snape,

Thank you ever so much for the heart attack.  Just the pick-me-up I needed this morning.  I don’t know how I’m going to cope with this devastating news, but I’m sure that I will find a way to carry on with this bitter disappointment hanging over my head.  No idea how I managed to think beating your score was even a remote possibility.  I must have received some vastly over-exaggerated encouragement about it at some point. 

Seriously though, thank you for letting me know that I passed, and for including your copy.  I would have surely spent the next two weeks fretting over it, but now I shouldn’t have to.  Instead I can concentrate on fretting over packing all of my worldly possessions, securing a portkey, moving to another country.  You know, trivial stuff.

That reminds me of something I wanted to ask you before I left, but given certain circumstances, never got the chance.  I’ll be moving to Albania, where I assume they speak Albanian.  How exactly to Wizards learn foreign languages?  Is there a spell or a magical device I ought to know about, or do I need to take a crash course in Albanian at some muggle school?  I’m sure I could ask Prof. Belby, but it’s gotten to the point where I feel like I should have asked that months ago, and I don’t want him to think I’m an idiot quite so soon.  Since you already know I’m an idiot, I feel less humiliated asking you about it. 

Thanks in advance!

~Gwendolyn Goode, POTIONS MASTER!!!!

///

July 16, 1990

Miss Gwendolyn Goode Potions Master,

You’re right.  You are an idiot.  However, a student is only as informed as her teacher, and perhaps that makes me the idiot for not teaching you this one myself while you were still here.  Do forgive my lack of foresight. 

On the back of this letter will be the formula for Polyglot Potion.  Brewing is fairly simple; you can whip up a batch in an afternoon.  However, some of the ingredients are expensive (i.e., Sphinx tongue).  You might be able to save some money by brewing in bulk, which I encourage you to do anyway, since you’ll always want a batch on hand.  The potion is shelf stable for several weeks, so don’t worry about it spoiling before you get to use it.

The properties of Polyglot are simple; each dose will grant you the ability to understand and speak any language being spoken around you.  Think of it as Polyjuice’s less talented cousin, and similarly, remember that the duration of its effects depend on how well the potion has been brewed.  This refined formula should last you about an hour and a half, so either keep a flask on hand, or keep your outings short.

You’ll likely be working with all English speakers anyway, but this ought to help, should you wish to venture outside of your little research bubble. 

Let me know how it goes, and write again once you’re settled in Albania.

-Professor Severus Snape, Potions Master (Before You)

///

August 1, 1990

Dear Professor Severus Snape, Potions Master (Before Me),

The Polyglot Potion is brilliant!  You were right about Sphinx tongue being stupid expensive, but I managed to buy two of them without going broke.  It ought to be enough to hold me over until I get paid.  I brewed the first batch before leaving London and it turned out beautifully.  Dealing with the Albanian Ministry and settling in among the locals has been a breeze!

Sorry for not writing sooner, but obviously it has been a whirlwind.  I’m officially in Saranda, a coastal city on a gulf of the Ionian Sea.  It’s really unbelievably beautiful here.  Belby has secured… what I can only describe as a castle, though it’s nothing like Hogwarts.  It looks like crumbling ruins to the muggles, and that’s honestly not too far off from its reality either.  I’ll kindly call it ‘rustic’.  But I can see the Mediterranean from the hill we’re on, and I’ll gladly take ‘rustic’ if I get to wake up to that every morning.  I’ll be living here for the foreseeable future, along with Belby, Eleanor Young and Alexander Mali.  I think you might know Mali?  I remember meeting him briefly at The Atticus.  They’re both quite a bit older than I am, and they’ve been here for longer too.  I feel like a first year again.

I’ll have to tell you now, I won’t be able to discuss the makeup of the potion itself in these letters.  It’s obviously proprietary, and I can’t fault Belby for keeping it close to the chest.  It’s kind of a shame though; I would have liked to talk to you about it in detail, but I already have a few ideas for improving it based on your methods. 

Research officially begins next Monday.  Belby has 6 volunteer werewolves lined up.  They’re all Albanian natives, except for two who are Greek.  They’ll aparate to the castle a few days before the full moon and stay here while we administer tests, and while they recover from their transformations.  I hear they’re being generously compensated, which I’m glad for. 

We aren’t giving them any potion for the first full moon though.  We’ll just be observing their natural transformation as a control.  This castle has a dungeon with holding cells, and Belby has replaced the iron bars with silver ones.  He apparently got those generous donations he was asking for.  We’ll also be using the applicable Protego charms, and those combined with the silver bars should be more than enough to keep everyone safe, including the werewolves.

Completely unrelated, the bottle of Phoenix Tears makes a lovely charm necklace that I promise will never leave my throat.

~Gwendolyn Goode, Potions Master (Thanks To You)

///

August 7, 1990

Dear Professor Snape,

It’s about 7 o’clock in the morning right now.  I’ve been awake for nearly 24 hours, but I’m too shaken up to even consider trying to sleep.  So I’m writing to you instead, because it’s the only thing I can think of to do.

I witnessed my first werewolf transformation last night.  I don’t know why I was expecting Lon Chaney Jr., but I was an idiot for thinking it could ever be that simple.  I don’t think any horror movie could have prepared me for what it’s really like.  You’re well versed in Defense Against the Dark Arts.  You don’t need me to describe it.  But reading that their bones break and reform during their transformation is considerably different from actually hearing it happen.  That popping sound is going to be in my nightmares whenever I finally do get to sleep.

After the trauma of the transformation came the observation.  Mali, Young and I were each assigned two werewolves to survey for the night, with Belby overseeing all of us.  We noted any behaviors that appeared to be unique to each wolf, so that when we start administering potion next month, we can see if there’s any marked difference in the way they act under its influence.  It was exhausting, mentally and emotionally, to sit down in a dungeon behind a barrier spell, and watch two wolves systematically tear themselves apart.  Grey Wolf was prone to chewing and scratching herself, while Brown Wolf spent his time charging the bars and scraping at the floor until his paws turned bloody.  I obviously can’t give you their real names, but they’ve been assigned as my charges for the remainder of the research project.  I just finished administering Blood Replenisher’s and applying Essence of Dittany to both of them.  The aftermath was just as horrific as everything else.  I’ve always fancied myself to have a strong stomach (when I’m not being slipped Purging Potions), but I came dangerously close to losing it most of the night.  I’ve never seen gore like that outside of a movie theater. 

Reading back, this might make it sound like I’m afraid of them.  I’m not.  But my heart aches for them.  Grey Wolf was only turned two years ago, while Brown Wolf has been afflicted for almost his entire life.  To go through this every single fucking month for an entire lifetime…  It only strengthens my conviction that I’m where I need to be.  If this potion Belby has developed really is a cure, or an inhibitor, or at least something that can make this condition easier to bear, so many people will be relieved of their suffering, and hopefully get to shed the stigma they’ve been burdened with through no fault of their own. 

I feel a little better now.  Calmer anyway.  I think I might be able to sleep.  Sorry for the downer of a letter, but writing to you seems to ease my mind.  Next full moon we start administering potion, so hopefully I’ll have better news then.

I hope you’re well.

~Gwendolyn Goode

///

August 9, 1990

Dear Miss Goode,

I’m sorry to read that your first experience with the project was so harrowing for you.  However, you’re right, Lon Chaney Jr. was a poor expectation to have.  Good D.A.D.A. professors are hard to come by these days, it seems; I wish you had been more prepared, and I should have had the foresight to warn you about the realities of it myself.

Beyond my interest in Defense Against the Dark Arts, I also had the misfortune of encountering a fully transformed werewolf in my youth.  I’ll spare you the details of my own teenage idiocy, but suffice it to say I’m intimately aware of just how fearsome and dangerous werewolves can be up close.  I commend Belby for his innovation with the silver bars, but all the same, I’m glad you are keeping the Phoenix Tears close. 

You say you aren’t afraid of them, but do consider that a modicum of fear can be healthy, especially if it aides in your self-preservation.  I can hear your Hufflepuff heart breaking from here, so I’ll use my Slytherin cynicism to remind you that no matter how lovely Miss Grey and Mister Brown are between moon cycles, neither will hesitate to kill you while under the lunar influence.  Use your empathy to care for them when the sun rises, but don’t let it cloud your judgment at night.  Even once you start administering potion, it could take years to get the formulation perfected to a point where your wolves become lapdogs.  Or preferably just stay human.

I’m sure that witnessing the next transformation will be less traumatic for you.  I don’t recommend getting your hopes up that the first potion variation will have much effect, but at least you’re prepared for what’s coming now.  If you find writing to me in the wee hours of the morning to be a comfort, then I’ll be awaiting your owl after the next full moon.  I suppose I ought to take some responsibility for sending you out into the world so direly underprepared. 

Stay safe.

-Severus Snape

///

April 3, 1991

Dear Professor Snape,

Not much to report after the full moon on Saturday; it was about the same as the last one.  The potion continues to make the wolves more docile, but they’re still spending the night pacing the cells, growling and snapping at us, being restless.  They act less like rabid wolves and more like scrappy stray dogs, which I guess is an improvement, but they still remain dangerous, so is it really?  And Miss Grey started self-mutilating while transformed again, so that was a bit of a step backwards.  Time for more adjustments I can’t talk to you about.  Hooray!

Anyway, another standard full moon report isn’t my real reason for writing you.  Something… odd happened last night, and I thought it might be of particular interest to you.  Miss Gray took a little longer than usual to recover from her transformation this time, so she stayed at the castle with me until Tuesday.  On Tuesday night, she was feeling in much higher spirits, so we went to our favorite local bar, the Rathskeller, which is attached to one of the inns in magical Saranda.  Nothing about this is particularly unusual; we (i.e. Mali, Young, our volunteers and I) all go to this bar together pretty regularly because it’s close to the castle and it’s nice to socialize outside of the project.  What was unusual, was that I saw Professor Quirrell at the bar last night.

I honestly wasn’t sure if it was him or not at first.  The only time I ever met him was when he came to my home the summer before my first year to tell me that I was a witch.  I recognized his face almost instantly, but he seemed like a totally different person from the pleasant (if a bit shy) man that came to my house that day.  I never took Muggle Studies or anything, so I don’t know if he’s changed over the years.  I didn’t talk to him directly; I wasn’t sure if he’d even remember me.  I’m sure he gave ‘The Talk’ to plenty of half-bloods and Muggle-borns so why would he?  But Grey and I did sit kinda close by him at the bar, and he was just acting so paranoid.  Stuttering and stumbling over his words, constantly looking over his shoulder, stuff like that.  It was weird.  Equally weird was the turban.  Has he had that for a while, or is that a recently acquired accessory for him?  He wasn’t at the bar for too long; I think he had a cup of tea or something, and then headed upstairs, where I guess he’s staying at the inn. 

It was just surreal seeing him there.  Why isn’t he at Hogwarts?  Did he quit or something?  I know it’s the middle of spring semester, and it’s certainly beautiful here, but I don’t think Saranda is a primo Spring Break locale.  I wish I’d just gone and talked to him myself, but… Oh well.  Here I am talking to you about it instead.  I’m just burning with questions, Professor, so don’t leave me hanging!

~Gwendolyn Goode

///

April 5, 1991

Dear Miss Goode,

Setbacks in research are to be expected.  There are so many variables that finding a perfect formulation less than a year out would be nothing short of miraculous, and not every variation will result in an improvement to the potion.  I am sorry to read that the setbacks are having a negative effect on the volunteers though.  It sounds like you and Miss Grey have become quite close; I didn’t realize that you were permitted to socialize with your subjects, but I suppose it makes sense, given the length of time you’ll be working together, and the level of trust that needs to be built.  Just remember what I said last year: don’t let your guard down just because she’s your friend when the moon is waning. 

Now, on to your burning questions.  I must confessed, I was rather shocked to read your letter.  Last we heard from Quirinus, he was in the Black Forest in Germany searching for vampires, and was going to be heading to West Africa next to investigate an influx of zombies.  Albania was never mentioned in his itinerary.  I should explain, he hasn’t quit; he’s supposedly taking a sabbatical to “gain firsthand experience” in Defense Against the Dark Arts, which he’s slated to be the teacher of next year, much to my chagrin.  For as long as I’ve known him, he’s always held a theoretical fondness for the subject, but never once had he expressed a desire to teach it as well.  The rest of the staff here at Hogwarts was baffled when he announced that he was going to quit Muggle Studies and take a year off to hunt monsters instead.

As for his behavior, I agree with your initial assessment; the man has always been quite amiable, but he’s timid to a fault.  I’ve been working with him for nearly 10 years now, and though we’ve never been close, you still get to know a person after all that time.  This paranoia as you describe it is news to me (as is the turban), and frankly it’s troubling.  If he’s been intentionally seeking out the dark arts for months now, it’s not entirely out of the realm of possibility that he’s been cursed or otherwise influenced by something to cause that sort of shift in personality. 

I know you wrote to me essentially seeking out juicy gossip, and I gave you conjecture in return.  We won’t get any definitive answers until he comes back to Hogwarts in September.  That being said, if you see him again, I think it would behoove you to avoid him.  I don’t like the sound of all you’ve described, and you’ve certainly got enough on your plate as it is.  Continue to use your better judgement.

-Severus Snape

///

November 4, 1991

Snape,

Were you going to tell me that a mountain troll made its way into the Hogwarts dungeons, or was I just supposed to read about that in the Daily Prophet myself?

~Gwen

///

November 5, 1991

Miss Goode,

To be fair, I was dealing with a considerably larger and more ferocious problem at the time.  I didn’t even get to see the troll until it was already effectively knocked out, by a group of reckless, insolent first years no less (can you guess which House?).  Suffice it to say I’ve got my work cut out for me this year.  If you’re looking for more details than The Prophet could provide, I’m afraid those have been hard to come by.  No one knows how a bloody mountain troll made it into the castle, but I have my suspicions that somebody let it in.  And I think you know who it is I suspect by this point.

I’ll assume all is well on your end.  The work must be getting quite intense if all you can manage to write is one incredibly cheeky sentence.

-Severus Snape

///

June 13, 1992

Gwendolyn,

I hate to write you so close to the next full moon.  I know your workload increases around this time, but I felt it was important to write you about this as soon as possible.  I would rather you hear it from me (and no, it isn’t going to be a petty joke about N.E.W.T.’s this time).

I’m sure you already know by now that Quirinus Quirrell is dead.  His obituary appeared in the paper recently, citing his demise as being the result of a ‘workplace accident.’  That’s putting it incredibly mildly.  I think he got caught up with much more than he bargained for while in Albania, so I advise you to continue using extreme caution whenever you leave the castle.  Whatever Quirrell picked up while he was there might be making its way back. 

That isn’t what I wanted to write to you about though.  Dumbledore has already chosen the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor for next year.  I’m certain that the announcement will be headline news, and I wanted to let you know personally, before you came across it in the Prophet…  It’s Gilderoy Lockhart.  I believe Dumbledore has taken him on as a teacher in an attempt to expose him for the slimy fraud he really is.  But I sincerely have to wonder at what expense.

I suppose I ought to add ‘keeping an eye on suspicious D.A.D.A. professors’ to my job description.  But I will keep an eye on him nonetheless.  I won’t allow anyone to fall prey to him again while under my watch.  And I’ll be more subtle than punching him in the face this time.

Don’t hasten to reply.  Get through this next moon and write to me when you can. 

-Severus Snape

///

June 20, 1992

Dear Severus,

It’s been nearly a week since I received your letter.  I’m sorry for the delay, though I know you understand.

I feel like we’re finally getting somewhere with this potion.  We’ve figured out that administering smaller doses in the days leading up to the full moon yield a stronger calming effect than just giving them one big dose on the night of the full moon.  Some of our volunteers are even reporting being able to remember what they do while they’re transformed, which has almost never been the case before. 

They’re starting to retain their human consciousness while they’re transformed, but sometimes they still can’t control their impulses, especially where ‘prey’ is concerned.  We have an impeccably rat free dungeon these days.   But I feel like we’re getting so close.  A few more adjustments in the ingredient ratios and we could have a potion that renders a werewolf completely calm and docile while under the effects of the full moon.  Perhaps not the cure we’ve been looking for, but I really believe we’re on the right track towards developing one.

Alright.  I guess I can’t pad this letter any further.  Thank you for telling me about Lockhart.  For not letting me find out about this through the papers.  I don’t know how I would have reacted, seeing that.  Betrayed, maybe, since Dumbledore knows what happened.  But I hope he will be successful in his attempt to expose him, even though I’m not sure how he’s going to do so. 

I still wonder sometimes if I did the right thing, by not telling anyone, by not trying to expose him myself.  It felt like the right thing to do at the time, but what if he’s taken advantage of other people since me?  What if I could have prevented that by telling my story and warning people about him?  Even if nobody really believed me, it would have made people question him, right?  I know it’s no use dwelling on What If’s.  I’ve finally learned that, but sometimes it still sneaks up on me. 

Maybe it’s because I’m utterly exhausted, but I think it’s rather sweet, you promising to ‘keep an eye on him’ on my behalf.  I appreciate that, especially because I know you’ll do it, too.  Please don’t punch him in the face again, because I don’t want you to get in trouble.  How do you think he’ll react when he sees you again?  Do you think he’ll even remember?  Part of me hopes he doesn’t.

I promise to keep my wits about me.  I’m rather sorry to hear about Quirrell, actually.  He seemed like such a nice wizard the one time I met him.  I can’t imagine what he ‘picked up’ while he was here to cause him such harm.  But I certainly won’t go out looking for it.

Thank you again.

~Gwendolyn Goode

///

October 12, 1992

Severus,

This isn’t a cure.

Last night, Belby decided we’ve reached peak formulation.  The ratios, the administration, the effects.  He’s decided they’re all perfect and we don’t need to do any further improvement, only test this final formula to make sure we continue to get consistent results.

And I can’t deny that the results are good.  We’ve achieved complete cognizance in transformed werewolves; they’re entirely in possession of their human mental faculties while they’re in wolf form.  They remember everything that happened after they turn back.  They spend the full moons sleeping now, curled up in their beds and completely ignoring the external stimuli we send in to the cells.  They won’t even bother with rats or rabbits any more.  They’re completely aware and docile.  They’re harmless.

But this doesn’t feel like a victory to me. 

I asked Belby if we would continue to work towards finding a full cure.  You know what he did?  He laughed at me.  He didn’t even answer me, he just laughed and ruffled my hair like I’m some sort of child.  Or a Hufflepuff, I guess.

I thought we were going to eradicate this affliction.  I thought we were going to end the suffering of all lycanthropes, and end the stigma that hangs around them.  We haven’t invented a cure.  We’ve invented a band-aid, and I’m sick about it.

You probably think I’m over reacting.  It’s just that I put my heart and soul into this project.  Maybe I’m desensitized to it, having been consumed by it for over two years now.  Should I take this for the milestone it is, or fight to continue further down the path because I’m not happy with the destination we’ve come to?

I’m sorry.  I realize that I just word-vomited all over this page.  That can’t be very attractive.  Please don’t call me a Hufflepuff Bleeding Heart too though.

~Gwendolyn Goode

///

October 13, 1992

Dear Gwendolyn,

While you are, in fact, a Hufflepuff Bleeding Heart, I don’t think it’s unusual that you’re feeling disappointment over something like this.  You entered into this project believing you were going to do one thing, but ended up with something else.  However I also think you ought to be proud of what you have accomplished.  You haven’t invented a band-aid, you’ve invented a safety catch for a loaded gun, to use another muggle metaphor. 

I realize that I am speaking from the point of view of someone who is not a werewolf.  Obviously, your personal goal has been to help werewolves themselves, but consider the fact that you are helping to keep non-werewolves safe as well.  You’re right, this may not strip away the stigma that werewolves have carried on their backs for hundreds of years, but it may begin a shift in public awareness.  People are much less afraid of a dog with a muzzle on. 

I think what you’ve accomplished is admirable, Gwendolyn.  I know you’ve put your heart into this; you’ve done so with everything you’ve ever worked on.  Just because this research project has reached a conclusion does not mean that your personal research has to end here.  Celebrate this milestone now, and then one day consider that you can head your own project to put an end to lycanthropy once and for all. 

I’m proud of you.  Don’t lose your focus because of this; you still have a few more moons to go, and you need to stay sharp.  But know that you’ve done well.

-Severus Snape

///

December 25, 1992

Dear Gwendolyn,

I can’t recall if we’ve ever discussed Pensieves before, but I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept of scyring bowls, yes?  Trelawney told me you learned about them in divination, at the very least.  Inside of the package this letter was attached to will be a bottle, and inside of this bottle is your Christmas present.  I thought with all of the stress you’ve been under, you could use a pick-me-up.  Pour the contents of the bottle into the scrying bowl, and dip your face into it.  Just trust me on this; it will be quite worth it.

Happy Christmas

-Severus

///

December 25, 1992

Dearest, Sweetest, Most Incredible Severus,

Do you really call sending Gilderoy Lockhart flying across a room with a perfectly cast Expelliarmus being more subtle than just punching him in the face? 

I can’t believe you did that.  Or, well, I can absolutely believe you did that, but I can’t believe that you were just handed the perfect opportunity to end this man’s whole career.  Did you really volunteer to be his ‘assistant’ (oh my god his ASSISTANT!)?  And he just accepted?  Is he an idiot??  He can’t have just completely forgotten about what happened.  Did he think he was going to be able to best you instead???  Holy shit, he’s a fucking moron! 

This is, by far, the best Christmas gift I’ve ever received in my life.  If I can figure out how to get your memory back in that bottle, I’ll cherish this just a much, if not more, than the Phoenix tears.  Oh my god, Severus.  You’re absolutely savage. 

Happy Christmas indeed!

~Gwendolyn

///

January 9, 1993

Dear Severus,

Every lunar cycle is the same now.  We give the potion to our volunteers for 7 days before the full moon.  On the night of the moon, they transform, they snuggle around in their bed sheets for a little while before sleeping the rest of the night, and then after they transform back they’re only a little lethargic for a few days before they’re feeling better again.  I think I can safely say at this point that this potion has been perfected, at least by Belby’s standards.  I think he’s looking to start drafting the patent papers soon.

But something has been bothering me, and it’s not just because we haven’t found a cure.  This potion is expensive.  I can’t tell you the ingredients yet, but I think you can guess what a few of them are (typical werewolf repellents).  If it were a one and done cure, the cost would be of no concern.  But to make this potion, for seven days, every single month?  Most werewolves don’t even have jobs, much less the financial stability to be able to afford to make 84 doses of this potion a year. 

I brought this up to Belby and the others… and I was laughed at again.  Severus, it’s like they don’t care.  We’ve been working with these werewolves for years, and Belby and Mali and Young don’t even care that they’re never going to be able to afford to even make this potion that they helped us perfect.  I don’t know what the solution to this problem is.  I thought perhaps some sort of legislation that would end the discrimination that allows employers to reject someone based on their status as a werewolf.  Or maybe subsidizing hospitals to offer completed potions at a lower rate.  No one took me seriously.  What was the point of inventing this fucking potion if werewolves aren’t even going to be able to utilize it?

I get the sinking suspicion that Belby is a Slytherin.  Can you confirm that?

-Gwen

P.S.  God.  I’m sorry.  Happy birthday, Severus.

///

January 11, 1993

Dear Gwendolyn,

Not the birthday card I was expecting to receive, but I’ll take what I can get.

Joking aside though, I understand your concern.  I’ll be interested to see the patent once it’s released.  If the ingredients are what I think they are, you’re right; this potion will be quite expensive to brew.  I’m not sure of a solution either, though both of your ideas have merit, if you can get the Ministry to agree with them.  I’m a little appalled by how unprofessional Belby and his colleagues are being towards you.  Did something happen?

As it turns out, your suspicion is valid.  Belby is indeed a Slytherin.  I’m sure you’re recalling back to when I said a Slytherin would be eager to make advancements in potions for the notoriety, while a Hufflepuff would do it to help people.  I don’t know if that’s the reason why Belby isn’t taking your suggestions into consideration.  Perhaps he has done this for the fame and recognition alone.  But Gwendolyn, that does not diminish the importance of the work you’ve done. 

Remember what I said; the development of this potion alone could be what it takes to shift public perception.  You’re not the only one in the wizarding world who cares deeply about the rights of creatures and wizards alike.  That bleeding Hufflepuff heart of yours is an asset, not a hindrance.  And frankly you wouldn’t be you without it.  Use it to your advantage.

-Severus

///

March 9, 1993

Dear Severus,

Last night was our last full moon.  Belby is submitting the patent at the end of the week.  When our volunteers recover from their transformation, they’ll all be heading home for the last time.  They seem happy with the work we’ve done.  I hope you’re right about the public eye shifting their perspective after this potion goes public; I want nothing but the best for them.  All of them.  They don’t deserve to be pariahs because of something they can’t control.  But at least now, they might be able to get some control over it.

When the volunteers go, we’re supposed to leave the castle as well.  But I think I’m going to stay in Albania a little while longer.  I’m not sure how long, but I just feel like my business is unfinished here, somehow.  Maybe I’ll just sight-see or something.  Visit the muggle side of town.  I’ve been here for almost three years and never left the magic district. 

I hope I’ve done the right thing.  I hope that this was all worth it, and I can maybe help more in the future.

I’ll be in touch.

~Gwendolyn

///

May 6, 1993

Dear Gwendolyn,

I’ve just received a copy of the patent for the Wolfsbane Potion.  I have to say, this formula is absolutely ingenious.  I can see that you made some significant contributions, because frankly, this potion has my fingerprints all over it.  I’d be interested to see what this potion formula looked like before you showed up.  It’s utterly brilliant.

Will you be returning to London to receive your Order of Merlin?  Can I get an invitation to the proceedings?  I’d like to congratulate you in person.  Just telling you that I’m proud of you on paper doesn’t seem sincere enough.

-Severus

///

May 21, 1993

Severus,

I’m not getting an Order of Merlin.

Belby didn’t even include me in a footnote on the patent. 

He paid me in cash, so I have no proof that I even worked on the potion.

I don’t know what I’m going to do any more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and commenting uwu!
> 
> It could be a very long time before I'm able to post the next chapter ;w; I'm going on a trip with my mom from the 15th to the 24th, and I will not be bringing my laptop with me. I'll try to get the next chapter posted before I leave, but that's... really unlikely :"3


	14. The Ghoul Next Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home from Albania, you receive an unexpected visitor, and an offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOF OKAY SO! I’m I managed to get one more chapter out before my trip :’3! It may be a while before the next chapter gets written, but I hope this will hold you over.

Your name is Gwendolyn Goode.  You’ve been out Hogwarts for a grand total of three years, and you are already entirely disenchanted with the wizarding world.  Of course, it was all terribly captivating at first; landing what you thought would be your dream job, moving to a beautiful foreign country, expanding your horizons.  But much to your dismay, it slowly became clear what complete and utter garbage wizards were turning out to be.  

You arrived back in London a week ago, and since your return, you’ve mostly been moping around like a sad sack of shit.  You’d gone back home to your mom’s apartment.  Back to the room you’d slept in for the first 18 years of your life, and the neighborhood you’d grown up in.  On one hand, it felt good to be home with your mom, back on familiar territory.  Vivian had had greeted you with open arms, and you’d cried into her shoulder for _hours_ , almost from the second you stepped in through the door.  But on the other hand, you felt more like a child than you ever had in your life. 

Your bedroom hadn’t been touched while you were away.  It was like stepping into a time capsule, with your innocence preserved in purple tie-dyed bed sheets, wooden beaded curtains hanging from your closet door, and a pile of stuffed animals stacked on the floor at the foot of your bed.  Your youthful passions were unspoiled in the David Bowie posters still pinned to the walls, in the collection of little mushroom statuettes and figurines tucked between the books on your shelves, and in the little garden box that hung from your window sill, overflowing with out-of-control chive flowers.

Now, littered among all of your childhood relics were some new additions from Albania.  A hand knit woolen blanket you’d purchased at a muggle bazaar during the tail end of your stay was draped across the foot of your bed.  A bottle of Skenderbeu cognac, a local liquor you’d grown quite fond of, was sitting half empty on the nightstand beside your bed.  And the memory board that hung over your writing desk was now full of photos.  Moving photos, taken with a magic camera you’d bought yourself with your first salary pay.  ( _The salary that had been magically direct deposited into your fledgling Gringotts account in the form of cash, so that it couldn’t be traced back to the depositor._ )  There were some landscapes, pictures of the Mediterranean gently lapping against sugar sanded beaches, and close-ups of local flora gently swaying in the breeze.  But most of the photos were of a woman.  A handsome woman, with short chocolate colored hair that was already flecked with grey, and dark olive skin that was riddled with waxy scars.  But despite these scars, Desma Lampros was always smiling, her nose scrunching up as she winked at you through the photos. 

You sighed and rolled over in your bed, facing away from the picture board.  Despite the sun beating down through your window, your mind was on the full moon that was creeping up.  Only five more days.  You’d become so attuned to the cycles of the moon that you didn’t even need to reference your star charts any more.  Had Desma figured out how to brew the potion herself yet? You’d been making it for her for the last two months, trying to teach her as a token of appreciation for being allowed to stay in her home after the project ended.  Not that keeping you around was any sort of burden; you’d been sharing a bed with her for over a year, after all.  Your relationship with Desma had been easy and casual, but neither of you had ever intended for it to persist after you returned to England.  ( _Because it was horribly unprofessional to sleep with Miss Grey, you fucking idiot.  Had Belby found out what happened behind your closed door? Is that why he decided to ruin your life?_ )  Desma was down to earth like that, and you appreciated her candor on the matter.  Still, you worried for her.  And laying in this narrow twin size bed alone, you missed her terribly, too.

You missed Albania.  You missed the salt air and the open ocean, waking up to warm sunlight and blue waters.  You missed the Rathskeller bar and eating fresh seafood and shëndetli every other night.  ( _You missed feeling like you were actually doing something with your fucking life._ )  Since returning home, your days had started blending together.  You’d wake up, you’d lay in bed thinking too hard for a few hours, before having breakfast with your mother.  You might run some errands, go to the shops, help around the house.  Vivian would go to work in the evenings, and you’d be left in the apartment alone, where you would blast classical records and sit on your bedroom floor drinking cognac.  You would flip through your research notes, trying to figure out where the cure was hidden.  Then you would read and re-read the patent that didn’t acknowledge you in any line of its text.  And finally, you would pour over every single note and letter you’d received from Severus Snape in the last three years, staining their pages with your tears.  Sometimes you would take out the little bottle of his memory and pour yourself into that instead, letting it loop over and over as you watched the scene from every possible vantage point.  Because it was calming, to be grounded by his voice again.  But it wasn’t the real thing.

You closed your eyes tightly and wrapped your hands around the pendant that hung from your neck.  The Phoenix Tears had never left your throat for the entirety of your stay in Albania, and they remained there now.  Desma had commented on it back when you first started sleeping together, idly twirling the small bottle between her bandaged fingers as she pillowed her head against your small breasts.  She teased you because it was the only thing you left on when you were together, but she seemed to understand that it was from someone special to you.  She never held that against you either, and you loved her for that.  Because even as you made love to her, just as you had done with Lawrence Hollingsworth in the weeks following your graduation, neither of them quite touched your heart. 

Ugh… Lawrence.  He’d written you twice since your return to London, but you couldn’t bring yourself to write him back.  You were pleased to read that he was doing well in the Auror training corps, and he seemed genuinely concerned for you, but he just wasn’t who you wanted to see right now.  The last time you’d seen him had been about two weeks before you left for Albania, on the night you’d mutually decided to lose your virginities to one another.  It had been awkward, because of course it was awkward, but you’d both been eager to get that hurdle out of the way before moving along with your lives.  Despite your tumultuous relationship in school, he’d become a close friend, someone you trusted, so it felt perfectly natural at the time.  He’d been so sweet and gentle with you too, and you certainly didn’t regret it.  But you didn’t want him to get the wrong idea if you agreed to see him again now.  He wasn’t who you wanted to see… because you didn’t want to see _anyone_.  Even if you had the opportunity, you didn’t think you could face Severus right now either.

Because you really _were_ an idiot.  A foolish, bright eyed idiot, who just blindly trusted people, and allowed them to walk all over you, because you were wired to see the best in the worst sorts of people, apparently.  You let Belby use you for three fucking years.  You worked your goddamn hardest, poured your mind and body into perfecting his potion for him, and you didn’t even have the ovaries to call him out when he talked down to you like you were a naïve widdle huffie-puffie.  Like you were some bubbleheaded intern instead of an honest to god Potions Master just like he was.  Though… maybe you _were_ naïve.  Just look where your trusting nature had gotten you.  You’d been taken advantage of by not just one, but _two_ famous, respected, well-to-do wizards.  You’d just sat there and let them steal what they wanted from you, because you were too immature to recognize when a handsome man was playing you like a fiddle. 

Then again… at least _one_ of them had ended up in Saint Mungo’s with severe memory loss.  At least _one_ of them had gotten what he deserved.

No… that wasn’t right.  You couldn’t allow your heart to grow hard over this.  Severus had called your bleeding heart an asset, not a hindrance.  He said it’s what made you who you were.  You had the sudden impulse to roll off of your bed and dig through the box of his letters to find that one, to scan your eyes over the words you had memorized since the day you’d received them.  But that would require effort.  And you weren’t in the mood for exerting any of that right now.  And it would only serve to remind you that you hadn’t written to Severus since you’d been back to London either.  That made you feel guiltier than ignoring Lawrence ever could. 

Failed career.  Failed relationships.  Failed self-preservation.  All of your teenage and childhood fears were rearing their ugly heads again.  You really weren’t cut out for anything.  You couldn’t venture back into the muggle world; you had no education that would be worth anything to anyone.  And all the wizarding world had done was betray you.  Even if you took an entry level job at an apothecary, who was to say that you wouldn’t get fucked right over out of that job too?  It wasn’t even that you wanted the _recognition_ for the work you’d done on the Wolfsbane potion.  You’d never been interested in that.

But you’d been promised something else, and absolutely no one had delivered.  Slughorn had promised you a future.  Belby had promised you a cure.  You’d gone into this thinking you were being given the opportunity to really, truly help some of the most disadvantaged people on the planet.  Instead, all of your passion and hard work had just helped Belby.  You may as well have pinned the Order of Merlin to his chest yourself.  Should have just handed him a front page spread in the Prophet lauding him as a hero.  You’d helped him gain his fame and notoriety.  Meanwhile, you were quite certain there wasn’t a single werewolf in England who could afford to brew Wolfsbane Potion this month.

You heard rattling from the kitchen.  Mum was up, so that had to make it about… 11?  You sighed as you stared at the wall, rubbing your fingers absently over the pendant in your hands.  There was nothing you could do about any of this, for now.  That’s what your mother would tell you.  Your brain had been churning with the same circular thoughts for weeks, and try as you might to use your logic, to clear your mind, to return to the present moment… the present moment fucking _sucked_ and you didn’t want to be in it either.  You felt like you should be doing _something_.  But all of your plans for convincing the Ministry to help put Wolfsbane Potion into the hands of as many werewolves as possible, sort of hinged on the fact that you had worked on the potion in the first place.  And you didn’t have any proof of that.  Your research notes were all handwritten, not a single one of them dated.  Even your letters to Severus never mentioned the potion directly, because of Belby’s insistence of your non-disclosure. 

Music came drifting into your room now.  You groaned and rolled onto your stomach, pressing your face into your pillow with dismay.  She wouldn’t be playing music if she thought you were asleep.  So she knew you were awake.  So you should probably get up and go help with breakfast or something but you just… couldn’t… even remotely force yourself to do that right now.  Even as your brain told your body it was time to get up, not a single nerve ending reacted to the command.  In a few minutes she would probably come and knock at your door.  She’d crack it open and peek her head in, and ask if you were okay.  You didn’t want her to do that either.  You didn’t want to tell her that you weren’t okay.  That you were thinking again.  That you were miserable because you couldn’t do anything about anything and you felt like your life was falling apar-

There was a knock.  But it wasn’t at your door.  You turned your head to the side, facing the wall with the pictures again, as if trying to see through it to the front door.  Neither of you were expecting visitors, especially not this early (“ _early_ ”).  Package maybe?  There was another clatter from the kitchen, followed by the music being turned down slightly.  You couldn’t hear much over the swell Vivaldi’s Spring, but you could tell that your mother had answered the front door, and she was speaking to someone.  The conversation lasted only a few minutes, before the front door shut again, followed by the shuffling of slippered feet down the hall.  Moments later, there was a gentle rap at you own door, and you sat up quickly in your bed.

“Gwen, honey?” came your mother’s sleep-scratchy voice.  Predictable as ever, she opened the door just enough to peer inside, her chestnut waves piled up on top of her head with a great big clip, and wearing her favorite kimono-style dressing gown.  She was the picture of lazy elegance, and it would have been a perfect snapshot of a typical morning in your home, were it not for the apprehensive look gracing her face.  That was new, and it made your heart pound wildly.  Belby and Lockhart hadn’t been the _only_ horrible men in the news lately… Hadn’t there been a breakout from Azkaban recently…?

Moving quickly, you scrambled out of bed, immediately reaching for your wand before stepping toward the door.  “What is it?” you whispered nervously, grabbing your own plain grey dressing gown from the back of your desk chair and pulling it on over your sleep shorts and tank top.  You were just getting ready to summon your shoes when you felt your mothers hand on your shoulder, and your head snapped up to find her smiling ruefully.

“I didn’t mean to spook you,” she whispered apologetically, rubbing your upper arm to try and soothe away your anxiety.  You felt slightly more relieved by this contrition, but you craned your neck to try and see past her just the same.  You couldn’t determine much through the crack in the door, and she pulled your attention back with a gentle shake of your elbow.  “There’s someone from Hogwarts here to see you,” she explained quietly, and all thoughts of Sirius Black vanished as you felt all of your internal organs plummet to the ground. 

“Who?” you asked hoarsely, pulling your dressing gown a little tighter around yourself.  You felt like you were on the verge of swooning, caught somewhere between giddy excitement and absolute terror.  There was no way… no _fucking_ way-

“He’s got a funny name,” Vivian whispered again, shrugging apologetically as she looked over her shoulder towards the living room.  “I wouldn’t get it right if I tried.  But he’s one of the teachers I met when I-”

You pulled the door open quickly and slipped past her into the hallway.  Even with your head swimming and your heart trying to throb its way up your esophagus, you dashed towards the living room fervently, your bare feet thudding on the carpeted floor. 

 _‘I’d like to congratulate you in person.’_  

Had he really come to see you?  After three years, were you finally going to get to see him again outside of a memory?  You’d been fantasizing about this moment for literal months, and while it usually didn’t involve you being barefoot in your pajamas with bed-head, you couldn’t allow yourself to think too hard about this.  Even though you were ashamed of yourself and embarrassed in advance, you just wanted to _see_ him.  You could feel terrified tears stinging the back of your eyes as you rounded the corner into your living room.

You had to clutch the back of the tweed couch to keep from just totally keeling over.  Placing a hand against your chest, you could feel your pulse racing against your fingertips, could feel the sick feeling creeping up your throat.  Your brain hadn’t quite caught up with the rest of your body, and you stuttered uncouthly as you croaked, “Puh… Professor Dumbledore?”

Albus Dumbledore stood in the center of your living room, wearing a set of pristine lavender robes and looking thoughtful as he gazed at a collection of framed watercolors hanging above the turntable.  Vivaldi was still pouring from the speakers with misplaced joviality, and the whole tableau was nothing short of surreal.  Despite his unexpected presence in your childhood home, he also looked surprisingly like he belonged there.  The glittering silver stars on his robes and the beads dangling from the ribbon in his beard fit right in among your mother’s eclectic décor of antique constellation globes and expansive collection of crystals and taxidermy. 

Dumbledore smiled serenely over his half-moon spectacles as he turned his attention to you, before raising a thin, knobby finger towards the art on the wall.  “Did you paint these yourself?” he asked pleasantly, indicating the watercolors.  “They’re quite charming.”  They were all pictures of the same red and white spotted mushroom you’d made when you were about seven, each with slight variations as you’d tried to get the mushroom perfect, experimenting with color and saturation.  You’d done it over and over until you’d gotten it right, but Vivian had framed and hung each and every one anyway.  She said she liked seeing the artistic process in action. 

“Uhm.  Yes, I did.  Thank you?” you muttered, unsure of what else to say.  It was dawning on you now, the absurdity of the situation.  Albus ( _freakin’_ ) Dumbledore was standing in your home, admiring 14 year old art work, and looking for all the world like he’d just popped in for a spot of tea.  Beyond the utter confusion, you also felt a wash of shame over just how stupid excited you’d gotten when you thought it had been… _someone else_.  And your mother wasn’t helping.  You could see her out of the corner of your eye, giggling in the hallway with her hand over her mouth.  Vile woman.  She probably did that on _purpose_.  You needed to get a handle on the situation.  Stepping around the couch, you stood before your old Headmaster, drawing his attention away from your ancient paintings once again.  “Pardon me, Professor, but… what exactly are you doing here?” you asked bluntly, and were surprised to see the old man’s face light up with recollection.  Like he’d just remembered why he’d come in the first place.

“Oh, my dear.  I’m ever so sorry,” Dumbledore laughed genially.  “Where are my manners?”  He clapped one of those boney hands onto your shoulder.  “We have much to discuss!  And there’s no time like the present.”  Looking up over the top of your head ( _you never realized just how tall Dumbledore really was before now_ ), he smiled warmly to your mother, who had finally exited the hallway after having managed to compose herself.  “Would it be too much trouble to ask for a cup of tea, Miss Goode?”

You jolted slightly at the name, but remembered that yeah, your mum was also Miss Goode.  She was smiling lopsidedly, as though simultaneously impressed by this old man’s gall, and mildly offended at being called ‘Miss Goode’.  But your mother wasn’t a bartender for nothing, and she quickly slipped back into the role of perfect hostess.  “Not at all.  And please, it’s Vivian.”  She stepped through the living room on her way to the kitchen, turning down the music even further, until it became pleasant background noise.  “Why don’t you have a seat, while I make up a tray,” she suggested, motioning towards the single tweed armchair that matched the couch.

Dumbledore smiled graciously and nodded his assent.  “That would be lovely, Vivian.  Thank you very much.”  Nodding politely as she made her way into the kitchen, she threw you a meaningful look before disappearing behind the beaded curtain that separated the rooms.  Using the hand still clasped on to your shoulder, Dumbledore steered you towards the couch, and you sat down obediently as he settled himself into the arm chair.  It was comically low to the ground for someone with such long legs, his knees almost coming to his chest as he plopped down into it, but he made absolutely no complaint as he settled comfortably against the cushions.  This was _absurd_. 

“Professor…” you started to ask, but Dumbledore cut you off, raising a placating hand to beg your silence.

“Yes, yes, my dear.  I’ll be direct.  My reasons for being here are threefold,” Dumbledore explained pleasantly, but his words only worried you further.  What kind of business could Albus Dumbledore possibly have with you?  This was the first time you’d ever really spoken to him one on one.  Even when your mother had visited the school after the Lockhart incident, he’d mostly talked to _her_.  He appeared quite determined to speak to you now, though. 

“Firstly, I’d like to congratulate you on the success of the Wolfsbane Potion,” he stated formally, and you felt something catch in your chest.  You’d… honestly never heard those words, from anyone.  Not anyone within the magical community, anyway.  Because no one _knew_.  So how… “Professor Snape told me you worked extremely hard on it,” he continued, as if reading your mind with no more than a passing glance.  “And I’m sorry to hear that Damocles Belby let his greed get the better of him.”

You sat in dumbfounded silence for several moments, your arms wrapping themselves tightly around your stomach in an attempt to hold yourself together.  So he knew because of Severus… You always suspected that he kept Dumbledore abreast of your talent while you were in school; it’s how you’d caught the eye of Horace Slughorn after all.  But he… continued to talk about you?  Even now that you were gone?  You felt your face warming up despite your best efforts, but you offered Dumbledore a small, but genuine smile of gratitude.  “Thank you, sir,” you answered quietly, and he smiled warmly in reply.

“Of course, my dear.  Now!” Dumbledore raised a finger, as if marking off an invisible check list.  “This leads quite naturally into my second reason for coming.”  He leaned forward now, his smile falling slightly with the gravity of his next words.  “As I’m sure you well know, we’ve recently lost our Defense Against the Dark Arts professor to a rather unfortunate accident involving a backfired memory charm.”  You winced slightly, but nodded.  The truth of Gilderoy Lockhart’s fraudulence and his subsequent amnesia was still making headline news as more details of his deception emerged.  You were indeed well informed of the situation, and Dumbledore did you both a favor by not resuming any further on that particular train of thought. 

“I have a new professor lined up to take the position,” Dumbledore explained, and the sudden sharp and serious look that hardened his features had you sitting up a little straighter.  “However, what I am about to tell you is extremely sensitive information, Miss Goode, so I’d rather it not leave this room.”  Your mouth fell open slightly, but your nodded immediately.  It wasn’t like you had anyone to be telling secrets to anyway.  Dumbledore nodded his ascent before explaining, “This new professor happens to be a werewolf.”  You started slightly, your body twitching at this revelation.  On one hand, it shocked you that Dumbledore would be willing to hire someone with one of the most dangerous and stigmatized conditions in the wizarding world to teach children.  But on the other hand… it also didn’t shock you at all.  You always got the impression that Dumbledore was the sort of man who took care of strays.

“I have no doubt he will be an excellent man for the job,” Dumbledore continued after allowing you a few moments to process.  “However, his employment hinges on him being able to control his lycanthropy during the full moon.”  Ah.  Now everything was coming together.  You nodded slowly with your perceived understanding, and Dumbledore finally allowed a touch of a smile to reach his eyes again.  “What I need to know from you, is if this potion will render a werewolf harmless enough to be considered safe to live among the student body of Hogwarts.  Professor Snape tells me he has no doubt about the potion’s effectiveness, but I’d really like to hear it directly from someone who’s seen its effects in person, and who has worked with werewolves first hand.”

The mention of Professor Snape and his confidence in your potion had your face warming up again, but you nodded more enthusiastically as you considered his words.  “Absolutely, sir,” you began, but you were both momentarily distracted as your mother re-entered the room from the kitchen, carrying a tray with a rustic looking brown tea pot, handmade earthen Japanese style cups, and a plate of crescent cakes.  She placed the tray on the side table nestled between the couch and arm chair, before nodding to Dumbledore and winking at you with her lopsided smile before retreating to the kitchen with a rattle of beaded curtains.  There were only two cups on the tray. 

“The… Wolfsbane potion is designed to give a werewolf complete control of their mental faculties,” you continued to explain, taking it upon yourself to pour tea into both cups.  Dumbledore held up a hand to tell you when to stop, and you slid over the small carafe of milk, as well as the honey jar.  “A transformed werewolf under the effects of the Wolfsbane potion has all the same control over themselves as an Animagus.”  You hoped this would be a useful comparison, because in truth, you weren’t actually sure of how much control that actually was, as you weren’t an Animagus yourself.  But you knew Professor McGonagall was, and you’d never seen her dashing off through hallways chasing rats. 

You picked up your mug, warming your fingers against it instead of actually drinking from it.  “I’m not going to tell you that it renders a werewolf completely harmless.  Their bite still has the potential to turn someone, even if it’s accidental.  But if he takes the potion exactly as instructed, and he stays isolated during his transformation, I’m talking locked doors and protego charms and security wards and everything, so that no one can get in, and he cannot get out until morning… I…”  You hesitated, staring down into the greyish liquid cooling in your cup.  It didn’t feel like your place to be saying all of this.  You couldn’t be held responsible if something did go horribly wrong.  But you believed in the work you had done.  You lifted your head and looked Dumbledore in the eyes with a fierce sense of determination.  “I feel reasonably comfortable telling you that he wouldn’t be a danger to your staff or your students.”

Dumbledore was idly stirring his tea with a small spoon as he considered you.  But you could see his eyes twinkling, see that hint of a smile deepening the wrinkles around his eyes.  And you smiled back.  You had a feeling you’d said exactly what he’d wanted to hear, and it filled you with something like pride. “Thank you, sir, for giving a werewolf a chance, and treating him like a normal human being,” you said suddenly, overwhelmed by this man’s generosity.  You remembered Desma, how she’d been living off of her meager savings since she’d been turned, unable to find any gainful employment, except to allow herself to become a test subject for an experimental potion.  You wanted so much more for her.  And if someone as influential as Albus Dumbledore was willing to take a chance on employing a werewolf, maybe the public eye was shifting yet.  “The whole reason I wanted to work on this potion was to help people, like your Defense Professor… I’m finally starting to feel like I might have actually managed to do that.”

Dumbledore’s smile finally reached his lips now, a pleased look settling into the lines of his face as he sipped from his cup.  “I believe you certainly have done so, Miss Goode.  Your motivations have always been quite admirable, and once again I commend you for your efforts.”  Placing his cup back onto the tray, he took up one of the crescent cakes and dipped the tip of it into his tea before taking a bite.  His silver eyelashes fluttered, and you couldn’t help but smile.  That was the best reaction to have to crescent cakes.  “Perhaps it’s not such a shame that things did not work out with Belby.  The man was a fool to turn away such a kind and courageous Hufflepuff.”  Your brows pressed together at the odd sort of compliment you’d just received, but you managed to keep your smile intact as the man polished off the small biscuit.  It was still a compliment, after all.  Brushing a few crumbs from his beard, Dumbledore leveled you with his piercing blue gaze.  And smirked.  “I, however, am not such a fool.  Which is why my third reason for being here, is to offer you a teaching position at Hogwarts.”

Your mouth fell open quite completely this time, and you heard a small squeak from the direction of the kitchen.  You both glanced over to see the beaded curtains swaying slightly, and Dumbledore smiled indulgently at your mothers eavesdropping.  His distraction gave you enough time to try and process this surprise, because frankly, it didn’t make any fucking sense.  Your heart rate picked up as Dumbledore turned to face you again, and you blurted out the first thing that popped into your head.  “Isn’t Professor Snape still-”

“Oh!  No, no, not Potions, my dear,” Dumbledore interrupted you before you could even finish, a chuckle bubbling up from him.  “I dare say, I thought you might be a little sick of potions by now.  Professor Snape is indeed still the Potions Master at Hogwarts.”  At this, the old man actually _winked_ at you, and you felt your face burn scarlet.  But he didn’t expand upon his actions, or even acknowledge them, but simply continued on.  “No, you came highly recommended as being a potential candidate for teaching Muggle Studies.  Charity Burbage hadn’t intended to keep the position for quite this long following Professor Quirrell, so there’s an opening.”

Your confusion only deepened, and you set your cup back on the tray for fear it might shake out of your hand.  Who the hell had recommended you?  You weren’t even remotely fit for this.  Besides the fact that you had no idea how to teach, you’d never even taken the course.  Because why would you?  You didn’t even know what was _taught_ in Muggle Studies.  Was it a Sociology class?  Anthropology?  Or more like history, or science?  You were absently cracking your knuckles against your lap, a nervous fidget you’d never worked yourself out of, but stopped immediately upon the first loud pop, startling yourself out of your thoughts.  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” you finally admitted, looking up sheepishly from your twisting hands.  “I… I don’t know why you would think I’m qualified to teach at Hogwarts.  I never took Muggle Studies and I-”

Dumbledore held up a hand to quiet you, and you obeyed, your eyes never leaving his as he smiled patiently.  “I don’t believe taking the class is a requirement for being able to teach it, seeing as how you live it.  You’ve had 21 years of experience, correct?”  You huffed out a short laugh, smiling warily as you nodded your head.  You couldn’t argue with that, and Dumbledore certainly didn’t want you to.  He was tracing his moustache with his long fingers now, considering you with a rather scrutinizing look.  “I was also told that you tutored Mr. Lawrence Hollingsworth through his O.W.L.’s and N.E.W.T.’s to great success, seeing as he’s well on his way to becoming an Auror now.  So I have no doubt of your ability to teach either.”  You blushed again at that, for several reasons.  But you’d never thought of it that way.  You… supposed you had taught Lawrence quite a bit.  And you’d been teaching Desma for the last few months as well.  You never thought you’d had a knack for teaching but…

Dumbledore could clearly see the wheels in your head turning, and the fact that you were even taking the time to think about it seemed to be all he needed.  Reaching deep into the pockets of his lavender robes, he extracted what looked like two tiny squares of chocolate.  But upon casting an engorgement charm, they turned out to be two rather large books, which he placed on the low coffee table before the couch.  “I took it upon myself to bring the lesson plans developed by both Quirinus Quirrell and Charity Burbage for you to look over.  You’re welcome to adapt and change them as you please, of course.  Muggle Studies is a very broad subject, after all.”  He said all of this with a maddeningly tranquil smile, like he was giving you a choice, but not really, because he knew you had already _made_ your choice.  But despite this perceived smugness, he was also looking at you with an incredible amount of fondness and warmth.  “I thought this might be a nice change for you, Miss Goode.  Leave the whole business with Belby behind, and give you something productive to do in the meantime.”

You stared down at the books, trying to absorb all of this.  That… was a very kind offer, and you recognized it as such.  It _would_ be a nice change of pace.  How hard could it be?  You wouldn’t have to worry about trying to find a job in the potions field any more.  Didn’t have to settle for a stagnant apothecary job, or allow yourself to be fucked over by another shitty Potions Master with grand ambitions.  Maybe you could even do your own research on the side.  Hadn’t Snape said something like that in your fifth year?

 _Snape_ …

“Who recommended me?” you asked suddenly, looking up from the books to Dumbledore, who was finishing the last of his tea.  Your heart was pounding in your chest as you considered the implications of all of this.  You could see him again.  You could work with him again.  You might… might even…  Dumbledore’s answer was another wink, accompanied with an enigmatic smile as he hoisted himself out of the low arm chair.  You winced as you heard his bones crack and pop, but he otherwise seemed unaffected as he smoothed out his robes.

“Term starts on the first of September, as I’m sure you know,” he replied cheerfully, completely ignoring your enquiry as he tented his long, thin fingers against his midsection.  “If you accept the position, I invite you to arrive to the castle two weeks prior.  That will give you some time to settle in and reacquaint yourself with the castle.  Do you accept?”

You started, sitting up straight but making no move to stand as well.  This was all happening very suddenly, and you felt a little thrill of dread and excitement course through your chest.  “Do I have to make the decision right now?” you asked cautiously, and the way his smile persisted didn’t soothe you at all.

“Do you really need to think about it, Miss Goode?” he asked simply, before holding one of those pale, boney hands out for you to take.

You stared at it, your head swimming again as you tried to rush through your options.  But what options did you have, really?  You could stay here and wallow your life away in self-pity before getting a dead end job you were going to hate. 

Or you could go back to Hogwarts. 

Why _were_ you even thinking about this? 

“I suppose I don’t,” you answered finally, your voice quivering as you accepted his proffered hand.  His grip was surprisingly strong as he helped to pull you up out of your seat, and he held your hand lightly as he waited expectantly.  “Yes, I accept.”

He clasped your hands with both of his, shaking it enthusiastically.  “Splendid!  Just splendid.  Hogwarts will be thrilled to have you back within its halls, I am sure of it.”  Releasing your hand, he fished around in his robes once again, this time extracting a gold pocket watch.  You weren’t particularly surprised to find that it had twelve hands, and planets instead of numbers.  That… just seemed like a perfectly normal Dumbledore thing to have.  “I’ll see you on the 17th or thereabouts,” he said, before slipping the watch back into his robes.  “You’re welcome to take the Hogwarts Express if you like, or you may simply Apparate to Hogsmeade.  Whichever you find most convenient.”

You were doing your own time keeping in your head, and you had an abrupt realization as you considered your early arrival and the start of term.  The words spilled out of you before you could stop them.  “The new Defense professor… Will he be arriving early too?” you asked, trying not to sound too eager about it.  “There will be a full moon the day before term begins.  I could possibly-”

“I believe Professor Lupin has opted to work out that transformation in the comfort of his own home,” Dumbledore cut in quickly.  He was very good at interrupting you.  Or perhaps at reading your mind.  “He’ll be arriving on the first with the rest of the students.”  You deflated slightly, as you were rather eager to meet this man.  Or, at least, eager to meet a werewolf you hadn’t been working with for three years.  You were a little ashamed to admit that you wanted to know how other werewolves felt about the potion you’d helped to create.  But you figured you’d still get to chance to speak with him about it.  You’d be coworkers, after all.

Dumbledore’s face went rather serious then, and you swallowed thickly with trepidation.  “I’m certain I don’t need to swear you to secrecy on this matter, Miss Goode.  But keep in mind that the only ones who know of Remus Lupin’s affliction are myself, the House Heads, and a scant handful of other professors.”  You frowned slightly, but nodded.  You had no intention of revealing anyone’s secrets.  Especially not one so dire.  Dumbledore continued.  “No student is to know.  And given that parents are already extremely on edge about the recent breakout of Sirius Black, I don’t wish to give them any more reason to panic.”  His face fell in to weariness then, and he lifted a hand to squeeze your shoulder, giving his words emphasis.  “Even with your brilliant potion rendering him harmless, I’d rather not risk the exposure, you understand?”

You nodded again.  “Of course, sir,” you assured him.  You’d been working with werewolves long enough.  You knew they kept their affliction close to the chest if they could help it.  The stigma was suffocating, and none of them deserved it.  You quietly promised yourself you would do everything in your power to help this Remus Lupin, if only to soothe your own heart.  You had to keep helping them any way you could.

Dumbledore’s smile returned, but it looked tired and a little worn.  Still, he squeezed your shoulder once more.  “Do you have any more questions for me?” he asked patiently, but you immediately shook your head.  You didn’t wish to hold him up any longer. 

“No, I don’t think so,” you replied, and he slowly slid his hand from your shoulder, patting your arm instead.  You laughed, for no other reason than your brain couldn’t tell if it wanted to laugh or cry.  Laughter always seemed to be the default.  “I… Well!” you huffed, rubbing your tired face.  “I guess I’ll see you on the 17th then.”  You smiled awkwardly.  “Or thereabouts.”

But Dumbledore didn’t seem to mind your odd outbursts.  He simply smiled placidly, before taking up your hand again, shaking it cordially.  “It’s an honor to have you on my staff, Professor Goode,” he assured you, and you laughed again at the change in title.  _Professor_ Goode!  Had a nice ring to it.  You would start reading those lesson plans immediately, you decided.  You already felt a weight lift from your back, now that you actually had something to do.  Maybe your future wasn’t completely in the mud after all.

You squeezed the man’s hand in return, this time taking _his_ hand in both of yours.  “Thank you very much, Headmaster,” you intoned, hoping he could feel the gratitude behind your words.  He was giving you a second chance to prove yourself in this miserable wizarding world.  You didn’t want to disappoint him.  And you didn’t think you would be disappointed working under him, either.

Patting your hands genially, Dumbledore finally released his grip on yours, taking a step back from you and clasping his hands behind his back.  “Please, call me Albus.  We’re colleagues, now, after all.”

You smiled delightedly at that.  Belby had insisted upon calling him Professor.  Sometimes even _Master_.  Albus Dumbledore was already a far cry from that bastard, and for the first time in months, you were actually looking forward to something.  “Albus, then.”

He gave you one last twinkling smile, before sweeping one last wistful glance over your mushroom paintings.  “Well now, I’ll be off.  Enjoy the rest of your summer, my dear,” he suggested merrily.  Stepping towards the beaded curtain, he called softly into the kitchen, “Thank you for your hospitality, Vivian.”  And you had to stifle a giggle as you heard another guilty squeak, before your mother appeared in the door way, just in time to watch Dumbledore reach the front door.

“Any time!” she called back with a wave, and just like that, your apartment was quiet again, but for Vivaldi shifting gently from Summer to Autumn.  You stood, staring at the front door with your arms wrapped tightly around your stomach, trying to keep yourself from just completely rattling apart.  Your mirth had suddenly dissolved away, and all that was left was an odd sort of coldness.  You were getting a fresh start, and you were ecstatic.  But it was also terrifying.  Starting again was _terrifying_ because you were afraid of getting _hurt_ again.

There was a shift beside you, and suddenly your mother’s arms were around you too.  You buried your face in her shoulder, and let your warring emotions spill onto her imitation silk dressing gown.  She shushed you soothingly, petting her hand over your thick waves as she cooed, “You did so good, ‘Lyn.  _So_ good.  He’s right, this is going to be _good_ for you.”  She gently pushed on your shoulders, and you looked up at her, tears streaming down your freckled cheeks.  She smiled apologetically as she wiped them away with the sleeve of her robe, before grasping your cheeks and smooshing them slightly, making them puff out and forcing you to smile against your will.  “And you get to go back, baby!  Back into the magic world.  And back to Hogwarts!”  She leaned forward, placing a kiss on your forehead as she released her hold on your face.  “You were always so happy when you were there.”

And though your tears did not abet, you were still smiling through them.  Because she was right.  You always _were_ most happy while you were at school.  For years you had spent the semesters pining to come back home, to this little apartment with your mother, but the truth was that over time, Hogwarts had started feeling like home too.  Because in both places, there was an incredible sense of safety, security, and love.

So you were going home.

Home, to Hogwarts.

Home, to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT CHAPTER GUYS. PROMISE. THEY'LL FINALLY REUNITE AND IT'S GONNA BE ELECTRIC. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and for all of your support :"3 I'll be taking a smol hiatus now to go on a much needed vacation with my mom. But I'll be back and writing before you know it uvu!
> 
> ALSO HEY!! GO CHECK OUT [BlooeyedSpazz](https://blooeyedspazz.tumblr.com/tagged/dream-sequence) on Tumblr! She's drawing FAN ART FOR DREAM SEQUENCE!


	15. Sweet Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your return back to Hogwarts is fraught with reunions and discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long with this update D: My trip was wonderful, but when I got home, we were suddenly faced with a potential hurricane, and things were just bananas. But I’m back to normal now, and finally got this chapter written YwY thank you for your patience! I hope you enjoy it :"3!

Hogwarts was different, when it was empty.  It was never exactly _still_ ; moving portraits, shifting staircases and shimmering ghosts saw to that, lending a constant buzz of sound and motion to the otherwise deserted halls.  But beneath that hum, without the constant chatter and bustle of hundreds of students to drown it out, you could feel the steady undercurrent of ancient magic that permeated the castle.  It had been subtle at first, but the longer you spent in the sparsely populated school, the more tremendous it became.  It was like getting to gaze upon a masterpiece with no one else in the museum.  A special viewing, just for you.  And it was humbling to feel its magic thrumming harmoniously against your own, because frankly, you’d been feeling disconnected from your own magic for months.

You had opted to take the Hogwarts Express for this very reason.  You could barely trust yourself to properly shrink your own belongings for the trip, much less Apparate yourself across the country.  Your wand had been particularly displeased with your malaise as of late; you’d practically watched the shiny maple wood turn dull over time, could almost hear the unicorn hair inside getting split ends.  You had finally started getting back in tune with your magic when you began drawing up your lesson plans, but all the same, you were relieved that you weren’t going to be teaching a class about actual magic.  You weren’t sure you’d be up for the task once term began.  But you were getting better, now that you felt like you had a passion worth pursuing, and your magic was responding in kind.

It had felt good to retrace your steps back to Hogwarts, if a bit lonely.  The deserted Platform 9 ¾, the nearly barren steam engine; it hadn’t been your first time encountering these odd anomalies, but it was your first time going it entirely alone.  You’d at least been in good company last time.  You savored the nostalgia nonetheless, buying cauldron cakes from the trolley witch and watching the verdant countryside roll by.  And for the first time in weeks, your nervous energy gave way to a sense of peace, the calming kind that came with the assurance that you were on your way home after a long trip.  And that was exactly what it felt like.  Going home.  It might have been the beginning of a new leg of the journey, but you felt ready for this, if only to have a sense of purpose again. 

You’d arrived in Hogsmeade with daylight to spare, and you were greeted _not_ by Rubeus Hagrid (which you’d rather been looking forward to), but instead by Argus Filch.  Though ‘greeted’ was perhaps too strong a word.  More like the man had sneered at you on sight, muttering under his breath about ‘flashy indecency’ as he turned away to hobble off of the platform, making you question your fashion choices more than you usually do.  You weren’t sure exactly what he considered indecent, besides the fact that your shoulders were showing.  You were wearing blue jeans, a burgundy sleeveless turtleneck and a pastel ice dyed kimono-style robe.  Was it the muggle-ness that made it indecent?  You just didn’t _feel_ like wearing dress robes; you thought being the Muggle Studies professor would give you a free pass!

There had been chilly silence as you’d followed the curmudgeonly old caretaker down the path towards the castle, but it thawed almost instantly the second you’d decided to ask how Mrs. Norris was doing.  It was low hanging fruit in terms of conversation starters, but it did its job to get Filch talking like you were an equal instead of just another delinquent.  He actually looked a little abashed over how he’d spoken to you earlier, now that he realized you were clearly a woman of culture, and had thanked you kindly for asking after his dear cat, especially after her bout of petrification last year.  You’d never had much trouble with Filch or Mrs. Norris while you were a student (thank god), and you’d always thought the cat had the prettiest yellow eyes, so honestly, your interest wasn’t even forced.

Your first steps into the empty castle had been surreal.  The clack of your boots echoed loudly in the vast and empty entrance hall, and as you came to a halt in the center of it, waiting for Filch to shut up the front doors, you were overwhelmed with dueling sensations.  It was a potent combination of the reverence one felt when entering a quiet church, combined with the eeriness one might experience when exploring an abandoned building.  Like, you knew Hogwarts was haunted because there were ghosts everywhere, but this feeling was haunt _ing_.  And for a few moments you’d felt powerless to move.  It was then that you’d first become aware of that strange hum on the edge of your perception, feeling those traces of old magic brushing against you own, and it made you shiver.  You didn’t know if Filch could feel it too, but the man stood close beside you for several long moments, basking in the silence along with you.  A silence that would be gone in a scant two weeks.  You thought you might understand why the man wasn’t so fond of students.

After your quiet reverie, Filch had finally broken the silence by offering to show you to your classroom and quarters, which you eagerly accepted.  The classroom was located on the first floor, only a few doors down from the staffroom.  It was modestly sized, as Muggle Studies wasn’t exactly the most popular extracurricular in the school, but you were absolutely thrilled to find that it actually looked like a perfectly average muggle classroom.  There were individual tablet arm school desks in four neat rows, six desks deep, set up before a large black board and flanked by pedestals containing ‘muggle artifacts’ under glass, such as a telephone, a boombox, and a compact disk ( _‘Dangerous’ by Michael Jackson, you noted_ ).  Just seeing this quaint little classroom made you feel even more excited to actually teach this class.  It was like being back in muggle primary school.  Except, you know, inside of a castle.

Through a door in the back of the classroom was your personal office, which was considerably less muggle looking by comparison.  It was dominated by a heavy wooden desk, much like the ones you’d seen in numerous other teachers’ offices when you were a student.  The bookshelves lining the walls were mostly bare, though it seemed Charity Burbage had left behind a small selection of muggle novels and children’s books.  You had a selection of your own to fill up the rest.

There was another door behind your desk which lead to your quarters, and before you entered, Filch decided to take his leave.  He gave you some basic instructions, like how to summon a house elf if you required sustenance, or where to find him if you needed any further assistance.  You’d thanked him kindly for his hospitality, which actually made the scraggly old man blush.  He’d fumblingly asked if you would like to join him for tea tomorrow, so you could visit with Mrs. Norris, of course, and you’d readily accepted, which only made him redden more.  You grinned fondly as he hobbled his way out of your office, before turning to the door which lead to your quarters, your new home, and stepping inside.

You weren’t sure what you had been expecting.  It always seemed like some great secret, what a teachers quarters were like, but really, there wasn’t much to them.  The room was fairly large, sort of like a studio apartment, the main focal point being the large four poster bed which was draped with breezy sunflower yellow curtains and adorned with wine colored pillows.  You didn’t know who the interior decorator was, but they clearly had your aesthetic dialed in.  One wall was dominated by a large alcove window, with a small dining table and comfortable looking chairs nestled before it.  More book shelves lined the other wall, along with two doors, one leading into a small walk in closet, and the other into the en suite bathroom, which contained a large, claw footed tub, and frankly you could not be happier.  Oh yes.  You could certainly live here.

You had a lot to unpack.  Your messenger bag was laden with several trunks which you had shrunk to the size of ring boxes, but honestly, you simply weren’t in the mood to deal with them right now.  You had two whole weeks to take your time turning this little room in to your home, and there was no reason you had to get started right away.  Clothes, books, teaching materials, personal effects.  They could all wait, for now.  Placing your bag on the table by the window, you only bothered casting an engorgement charm on one of the trunks, the one containing your essentials, like your toothbrush and pajamas.  You would unpack it later, but it would be convenient to have it ready to go you when you returned.  Because right now, you wanted to explore.  Dumbledore had advised you to reacquaint yourself with the castle, and with its powerful magic fluttering against your own, you wanted to do just that, right now.

Why not start with the dungeons, hm?

You were secretly quite pleased that the walk from your first floor classroom to the dungeons was a short one.  Navigating the halls and corridors was an easy task; practically nothing had changed since the last time you were here.  The painting leading to the kitchens, the entrance to the Hufflepuff Common Room, the stairs down to the dungeons, the Potion’s classroom.  All right where you remembered.  And your feet carried you there automatically, because who were you kidding?  It wasn’t exactly the _castle_ you wished to reacquaint yourself with.

How many times had you stood here?  Staring at this ancient wooden panel, with roiling anticipation twisting up your guts as you waited for its occupant to come out and retrieve you?  It was a familiar anxiety, but you hadn’t been waiting just three weeks to see him this time.  It had been three _years_.  And though you had corresponded regularly… would things be different now?  Was he anticipating this reunion as direly as you were?  You were no longer a student, an apprentice or a protégée.  You were a grown woman now, a colleague, maybe even a friend ( _definitely at least that, right?_ ).  But you were also an idiot, and just like when you were a girl, the first thing you expected to receive was a reprimand.  But at least a reprimand was still familiar territory.

Alright.  You couldn’t stand here twining your fingers forever.  You stepped forward with determination, raising your fist to rap against the door-

“Professor Snape hasn’t arrived yet, Miss Goode.”

You yelped.  Sonofabitch you actually _squealed_ as you pulled your hand away from the door, twisting around to find Professor McGonagall standing only a few feet away, looking as severe and unamused as ever.  Oh dear god.  How long had she been standing there?  Just how deep were you into your own thoughts that you hadn’t even heard her approach?  What a brilliant first impression to make on your new boss, who you already suspected had a very low opinion of you to begin with.

Your heart was pounding in your chest as you clutched your fist against it, trying not to collapse like the last time she had caught you _skulking_ outside of a room you didn’t belong in.  “Aha… Hello, Professor McGonagall,” you greeted with a curt nod, your voice quaking just a bit.  But the meaning of her words finally sank in, and you deflated, glancing towards the door before looking back to the older woman.  “S-So you… you mean he’s not… here…”  You words trailed off, and even you couldn’t hide the bitter edge of disappointment that crept into your voice.

McGonagall didn’t even look remotely sympathetic, uncrossing her arms to instead prop one hand on her hip with an exasperated sigh.  “I’m afraid not,” she explained, and you cringed at your own longing.  This second first impression was just getting worse by the moment.  “Aside from those of us who live in the castle year round, you’re the first to arrive.”

Several parts of that sentence stuck stupidly in your brain like chewing gum, and it took what felt like an embarrassingly long time before you managed to ask, “You live here during the summers?”  You never considered that there might be teachers who lived in the castle permanently.  You knew Hagrid had a house out on the grounds, but to live _inside_ the castle, all summer long?  That seemed rather lonely.  You had only been inside of the empty castle for less than an hour, and you were already feeling a profound sense of isolation.  And the way the castle’s magic became so much more pronounced when it was empty, an ever present _something_ on the edge of your awareness…  It was a wonder that no one went full on Jack Torrance up in here. 

“I do, along with Professor Dumbledore, Professor Trelawney and Madam Hooch,” McGonagall explained briskly, rather forthcoming with the information.  It made you feel slightly less stupid for asking.  “And Mister Filch and Hagrid, of course.”  Ah, so it wasn’t _complete_ isolation.  There were other people here.  Filch and Hagrid you could understand.  Trelawney, too.  The woman was practically a hermit, and you had never once seen her outside of her classroom the whole time you’d been taking her class.  But Madam Hooch came as a surprise.  You always thought she was something of a freelancer, assuming that her only duties were to teach first years how to fly, and to referee Quidditch games.  What reason did she have for staying at Hogwarts year round?  And Dumbledore… Was he here?  Why couldn’t _he_ have come to greet you instead of… well.

You nodded your understanding however, before picking at the other thought that had stuck in your mind.  “And when um… When do the other professors usually arrive?” you asked tentatively, glancing over to the Potion’s classroom door again.  You rather hoped she would say ‘any minute now’.  But of course, when could you ever be so lucky?

“I believe Albus may have been a little over eager, suggesting you arrive a full two weeks early,” McGonagall clarified, making you deflate even further.  Her tone was lighthearted, but to you, it sounded ominous.  She continued, showing off her own impeccable brow arching skills.  “Some professors don’t even show up until the day of the feast.”  You physically blanched at that.  Really?  You had arrived this early, when some professors wouldn’t even show up for another _two weeks_?  You had already waited so long, would you really have to…?

“But then again,” McGonagall interjected, and you snapped yourself out of your tumultuous introspection.  “They have a great deal less to set up than a first time teacher might.”  Ah… Well that was true.  You did have an entire life and curriculum to unpack.  Getting everything set up how you wanted would take time, two weeks sounding about right.  It would give you something to do in this achingly lonely castle.  But still… you’d hoped… _really_ hoped…

“Care to join me for tea?”

You blinked stupidly, her sudden shift in topic and demeanor catching you off guard.  Tea?  With McGonagall?  That honestly sounded like a nightmare, given how terribly this interaction was already going.  But how could you refuse?  What excuse could you give her?  What else could you possibly have going on?  It wasn’t like you had anything better to do… Or anyone else to see.

You suddenly felt exhausted, the length of the day finally catching up to you like a shadow, exacerbated by the knowledge that you wouldn’t get to see him today.  But you put a smile on your face anyway, tired though it may be.  “I’d love to,” you accepted, and McGonagall wasted no time nodding her assent before turning on her heel and heading up and out of the dungeons.

You followed her dutifully, trying not to feel too put out at this sudden turn of events.  Maybe it was better that he hadn’t been there.  Your over-eagerness must have been pretty apparent to McGonagall, and that kind of desperation probably wasn’t cute.  At least this diversion would give you the opportunity to slow your ass down before you went and threw yourself at him like a harlequin romance.  Though there was still no guarantee that _wouldn’t_ happen…

You hadn’t really been paying attention to where you were being lead, but when you found yourself being welcomed into McGonagall’s study, it came with the uncomfortable realization that it was almost directly across from your classroom.  Outstanding.  Exactly what you always wanted. 

The office was a lot warmer than you remember it being as a student.  More welcoming at least, given the fact that you could only ever remember being in this room once, with a throbbing hand and a Slytherin boy groaning pathetically in one of the maroon wing backed chairs.  The chairs were still there, though they were situated in front of a fireplace, instead of standing before the walnut desk.  The room was sparse, not much in the ways of personal affects, but one thing you did notice was the burnished gold House Cup, gleaming on the mantelpiece above the fireplace.  Slytherin had won the House Cup nearly every single year you had attended Hogwarts, but it was only recently that Gryffindor had started making a comeback.  Those had been some colorfully worded letters.  You wondered who had the _Quidditch_ Cup at the moment…

You jumped with a gasp as the office door clanged shut, and McGonagall didn’t even spare you a glance as she strode past you toward her desk, the barest hint of smug satisfaction tugging at her thin lips.  She was enjoying this entirely too much, but frankly, you were sort of inclined to just let her.  You weren’t going to let her intimidate you, but if she felt the need to push your buttons as some form of petty revenge for all of the grief you put her through as a student, you could deal with it.  You watched as she snapped her fingers, and a tea tray clattered to her desk at the same time a fire burst to life in the hearth.  Taking your cue, you walked cautiously over to the fireplace, slowly taking a seat as you watched McGonagall pour tea into two garnet and gold tea cups.  

“How do you take your tea?” McGonagall asked cordially, though the stern lines of her face gave you the impression that this was a very important question.  As if your entire relationship with this woman hung on to how you took your bloody tea.  And maybe it did.  But.  You wouldn’t be intimidated.  Goddamn it. 

You shrugged a shoulder and offered another smile, one you hoped was entirely casual and not passive aggressive at all.  “I’ll… have it however you’re having it,” you answered, as the truth was you didn’t really care how you took your tea.  Plain?  Cool.  Milk?  Great!  Sugar? Why not.  It was one of many types of hot caffeinated brown water that you enjoyed drinking, and it really didn’t matter to you one way or another. 

McGonagall raised both of her eyebrows, looking you over appraisingly, and there was a tense beat of silence where you feared that had been the wrong answer.  But after a moments pause, McGonagall bent over, opening one of her desk drawers and rummaging around for a moment, before straightening up with what was unmistakably a bottle of brandy.  Your own eyebrows flew up your forehead, watching in silent awe as she unscrewed the cap, splashing a little bit of the amber spirits into each cup.  She then placed the bottle onto the tea tray before using her wand to levitate the whole thing to the small coffee table set between the two chairs.    

“I didn’t just ask you to join me out of the kindness of my heart,” McGonagall stated, voice clipped as she settled herself into the chair opposite yours before taking up a cup.  She watched you expectantly for a few moments, before you got the hint and did the same, eyes never leaving hers.  “As Deputy Headmistress, I’m obligated to give you the same speech that I gave Severus Snape when _he_ started teaching here at the ripe old age of twenty one.”  You glanced away at that, cheeks tinting as you peered down into your tea cup, inhaling the heady aroma of black tea and brandy.  Ah, was that part of the problem as well?  Your age?  Did she think you were just as impulsive and irresponsible as you had been as a student?  If she was already biased against you-

“And the same speech that Albus Dumbledore gave me when _I_ started teaching here at the same age.”    

You lifted your head at that, your lips parting in what you hoped wasn’t a completely stupid expression of bafflement.  McGonagall was sipping her tea, looking as prim and severe as she ever had, her dark hair now steaked with silver, the lines on her face doing nothing to detract from her elegance.  And you couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been in the same position you were in now.  Faced down by a former professor, feeling small and inadequate, wondering if any of this had been a good idea.

But McGonagall’s face had softened, ever so slightly, as she settled her cup back onto its saucer on her lap and leaned against the arm of her chair towards you, to make sure her words were clear.  “I’m not your teacher anymore,” she stated quite plainly.  “Nor are you my student.  However,” she straightened up a little, expression shifting to one of warning.  “I _am_ the one who signs your paycheck.  So do keep that in mind.”

You couldn’t keep yourself from smiling at that.  It wasn’t so much of a threat as just a note of caution, and you nodded your head in understanding.  You knew where your position was on the food chain.  But at least she was acknowledging that you were technically equals now.  You wondered if she would uphold that end of the arrangement over the course of this conversation. 

You finally took a sip of your tea, the burn of brandy warming your insides as you leaned back against your seat.  “I’m happy to be getting a paycheck at all,” you admitted ruefully, the barest hint of bitterness creeping in behind your smile.  And McGonagall seemed to pick up on it right away, because her face fell even further, nearing something like pity.

“Indeed,” she breathed with a heavy sigh, shaking her head in disappointment which, for once, was not actually directed towards you.  “I can guarantee you that you will be living and working in a considerably more… professional setting, than your last place of employment turned out to be.”  She turned to face you again, genuine remorse gracing her expression as she looked you in the eye.  It made your breath catch to be on the receiving end of such a look from a woman you thought didn’t care very much for you at all.  “I am sorry for what happened with Damocles Belby, Miss Goode.  That’s no way for a young witch to be treated when entering the world afresh.”

Oh… that was… a really nice thing to say.  Her words were so sincere, so earnest.  McGonagall appeared genuinely repulsed by the actions that had been perpetrated against you, and probably dozens of other women like you, who had been taken advantage of in one way or another by no fault of their own besides ignorance.  You felt an unfamiliar swell of affection for this woman, something you were quite sure you’d never felt before.  “Thank you, Professor,” you intoned honestly, hoping that your own sincerity was evident in your face.  And it appeared to be satisfactory, as the older woman gave a nod of acknowledgment before returning her attention to her tea.  You did the same, taking another warming sip.

“Now, I’m sure I’ve no need to remind you that you are a _professor_ at Hogwarts, and we expect you to act appropriately,” McGonagall began, right back to business in term of… well.  Giving you the business.  You set down your tea cup, showing that she had your full attention.  But you couldn’t help but wonder how Severus had felt when he’d received this same talking to.  McGonagall’s expression was one of great significance as she explained, “You are to watch after your students, respect your colleagues, and though you may be an adult, I would still consider you a very _young_ adult.  You are burdened with the freedom to do what you want, but do remember there will always be consequences for your actions, even as a professor.”  There was a pause where you watched as her eyes raked over your appearance, and she made no effort to hide it either.  “Do try to maintain a sense of modesty and decorum?”

Your entire existence prickled at her implication.  Goddamn it.  You looked away, abashed as you shrugged your robes up over your freckle spotted shoulders from where they had fallen down around your elbows.  Alright, so there was a dress code.  Fine.  Whatever.  If both Filch and McGonagall were going to call you out, you would make an effort to abide.  But they didn’t have to be quite so pretentious.  “Yes, ma’am,” you assured her, and you really hoped that would be the end of it.

And it appeared that it was, as McGonagall nodded her approval before placing her tea back onto the table.  “Now, I have the sneaking suspicion that when Albus hired you, he didn’t provide you with any of the pertinent paperwork?” she asked, rising from her seat and making her way over to her desk. 

You were a little surprised to hear her speak of the Headmaster with such a resentful tone, but you imagined they’d been working together for such a long time… one became accustomed to the others idiosyncrasies.  “He did send me a contract to sign-” you began to explain, but McGonagall waved her hand dismissively, shaking her head.

“That was just your terms of employment,” she clarified, searching through yet another one of her desk drawers before coming up with a few slips of parchment and making her way back to you.  “What I’m speaking of would be closer to… a code of conduct.”  She stopped in front of you, holding out one of the parchments, and you took the paper with both hands, internally cringing at the amount of fine print.  “For example, favoritism will not be tolerated.  That is to say, don’t give Hufflepuff, or Slytherin for that matter, more points than you do any other house.  We will be watching who is doling out what.”  You bristled again ( _what was she inferring with_ that _?_ ) but nodded readily.  It made sense, though you wondered how well enforced it actually was.  You had received a rather strongly worded note from Severus when Dumbledore had handed out a resounding 170 points to Gryffindor at the last minute in ‘92, causing Slytherin to lose the house cup for the first time in six years.

McGonagall had settled back into her chair, leaning against her arm rest to get your attention back from the paper in your hands.  “Speaking of house points, you were a student here once.  I trust you to use proper judgement on what deserves praise, and what deserves _punishment_.”  You winced.  She was doing it again.  That whole ‘reminding you of how much she disapproved of you and your actions as a student’ thing.  But you kept your mouth shut as she continued, with a touch less severity in her voice, “Though if you’re unsure, report the particular student to their Head of House to assess the situation.”

You sighed through your nose, grateful for the return of her businesslike tone, as well as the assurance that you could pass off that responsibility should you ever feel the need.  You looked back down to the paper, the Code of Conduct as she’d called it, skimming over the many little blocks of text that were staring back at you. “Yes, ma’am,” you agreed again somberly, hoping that your dedication was evident.

“Take your time looking over that,” McGonagall gestured towards the paper in your hands, pointing down towards the empty line on the bottom.  “Sign it and return it to me before term starts.  I know it’s a lot of bureaucracy, but its standard procedure here.”  A tight smile returned to your face.  At least she was willing to acknowledge that this seemed a little excessive.  But on the other hand, you had every intention of reading the entire paper before handing it back in.  You honestly didn’t _want_ to fuck all of this up. 

“Now, did Albus already send you your class schedule?” McGonagall asked, looking over the other sheet of parchment in her hands, and you glanced at it at well, seeing that it was nearly an exact copy of what you already had.  You were happy not to have to throw Dumbledore under the bus this time.

“Yes he did,” you confirmed cheerfully.  “I’ve got my lesson plans and curriculum ready to go.”  You were quite proud of it, really, and you hoped that your preparedness might give McGonagall a little extra confidence in you.  You had planned out five different programs for the course, one for each of the five different years of students you would be teaching.  You also hoped that it would be comprehensive enough for the students who had already started the class with Burbage or Quirrell to be able to continue comfortably, and that there wouldn’t be much overlap in curriculums. 

McGonagall raised an eyebrow at your apparent pride in yourself, and allowed herself the faintest smile at it.  “Good,” she said curtly, and goddamn it almost sounded like praise to you.  You thought that was worth a gold star.  But then she tossed you a curve ball.  “How about your rounds schedule?”

You blinked, perhaps quite stupidly as your confidence fell away.  “My…?”

But McGonagall was rolling her eyes before you could say any more.  “For Merlin’s sake, Albus…”  She huffed, shuffling through some of the parchment in her hands, before coming up with a paper containing a large chart.  “Obviously, aside from just being a teacher, you have other duties as well, specifically in the vein of keeping Hogwarts and its students safe.”  She handed you the parchment, and you looked it over carefully in the light from the fire.  The chart was actually more of a calendar, with each column being a month of the school year, and the rows under it containing important dates for each month.  Quidditch matches, staff meetings, school holidays.  It was personally tailored to you to include your exam schedule, as well as a ridged regimen of when you were supposed to walk rounds.  And you couldn’t help but notice that the chart also contained the dates for the full moon.

“You’ve got rounds duty on the first floor and the dungeons every Tuesday and Thursday, from ten o’clock to midnight, as well as every other weekend.  You were a Hufflepuff, so we simply assumed you were well acquainted with the lower levels of the castle.” McGonagall was all business again, and you nodded along silently as she described your duties.  This however, was followed by a heavy silence that forced you to lift your head, where you found a look of gravest import on her face.  “These rounds are particularly imperative right now, given the current… climate surrounding the school.  I assume you’re abreast of the Sirius Black situation?”

Oh.  You actually shivered a little, remembering that gaunt, sunken face on the television, and then again as it laughed and raged in the Prophet.  You never considered yourself an easily frightened person; you’d been watching horror movies, perhaps ill-advisedly, since you were five.  But it was much different when the killer was a real honest to god threat that could also do magic.  “Just what they’ve been reporting, both in the magical and muggle news,” you replied.  “That he’s a dangerous convict who escaped from Azkaban.”  That was awfully redundant to say, since it seemed that everyone knew at least that much.  However, you felt like McGonagall knew more than the collective ‘everyone’.  And that was kind of scary.  “Is… Is there reason to think he may be coming here?”

McGonagall’s face fell, her turn to sigh heavily though her nose.  “Albus seems to think so, as does the Ministry of Magic,” she began, reaching not for the tea pot, but for the bottle of brandy, unscrewing the lid and topping off both of your cups.  “While Hogwarts is one of the safest and most secure places on the planet… so is Azkaban prison.  If he could break out of there, there is sufficient evidence to suggest he could break in to here.  And though no one has shared this evidence with _me_ , I do have my suspicions.”  Disregarding all pretense of sophistication, she took a very long, thoughtful nip from her cup, and you were actually sort of impressed.

Gasping from the burn, she pressed on, clearly needing the alcohol to strengthen her resolve for her next revelation.  “Because of all this, the Ministry has been kind enough to send us a battalion of Dementors to guard the castle walls.”  Oh.  Jesus Christ.  You could understand now, why she was so keen to throw back the brandy.  You lifted your own cup and took a heavy swig.  “Albus isn’t happy about it, and neither am I.  But there isn’t much he can do at this point.”  Swirling around the dregs of her cup, she nodded towards the schedule in your hand.  “There will be a strict curfew in effect when term begins, for students and teachers alike.  Be back on the grounds before midnight, or you may find yourself locked out of the castle entirely.”

With Dementors posted around the castle, you didn’t feel terribly inclined to be leaving the grounds anyway.  Swallowing back the entirety of your own cup, you set down the porcelain with a wince before nodding gravely.  “I don’t think that will be an issue,” you admitted, folding up both your calendar and the code of conduct and slipping them into the pocket of your robe.  You shuddered again just thinking about possibly having to face one of those… things.  You didn’t know much about them if you were being honest, but you knew _enough_.  The Prophet had no issue constantly going into detail of the effects of the Azkaban guards.

“And finally… well, this situation is quite unique to you.”  Glancing up to McGonagall, you found she had drained her cup as well, but was making no move to refill it this time.  She had a curious sort of look on her face, a cross between apprehension and uncertainty.  If you held your breath any longer you were going to pass out.  “Albus of course told you about Remus Lupin, our new Defense professor.”

Oh, thank god.  You breathed a sigh of relief and nodded.  “Yes, he did,” you replied, though you were still a bit hesitant yourself, unsure of the reason for McGonagall’s own trepidation. 

McGonagall nodded, regaining a little more of control over herself at your answer.  “The entirety of the staff knows of his condition, now,” she explained, and you were honestly quite glad to hear it.  Keeping that sort of thing a secret from the staff would have been… irresponsible, honestly.  “Albus had to pull a lot of strings and make a lot of promises, but frankly, not everyone is pleased with his decision.  You being here is actually what convinced many of them to go along with it.”

Your eyebrows almost flew off of your face for how quickly they shot up your forehead.  _Excuse you?_   You had been a bargaining chip?  That… was actually pretty distressing.  Dumbledore had said he’d hired you because you came highly recommended for the position.  Was that really the case?  Or did he have a different agenda…?

“Professor Snape has been tasked with brewing the potion itself,” McGonagall began, leaning forward a little to catch your eye, as they’d drifted away with the sudden influx of self-doubt.  “However, Albus has delegated the responsibility of looking after Professor Lupin before, during, and after his transformations, to you.  Given that you have such extensive experience, you’ve been trusted with casting the appropriate charms to keep him isolated, as well as tending to him after he’s turned back.  Madam Pomphrey will be available to help, of course, but she’s limited in her experience with werewolves.”

That look of uncertain apprehension had returned to McGonagall’s face, as if she were reluctantly delivering some very bad news.  And she sort of was.  This hadn’t exactly been a part of your job description when you’d been hired.  It didn’t even sound like you were being given a choice in this matter.  Once again you found yourself fretting, over whether or not you had been hired based on your own merit, or if you had been brought on purely to assure the hiring of another professor, who taught a much more important subject than your own.  The employment of a disenfranchised werewolf hinged on whether or not you complied with these demands. 

As if there was ever a chance you _wouldn’t_.

“It shouldn’t be a problem,” you said finally, forcing some confidence back into your voice, perhaps with the aid of some of that liquid courage.  “I’ve been doing this for three years now.  The Wolfsbane potion greatly reduces the vast majority of symptoms and injuries associated with transformation.  But as you said, it’s important to keep Hogwarts and its students safe.”  You offered another smile, not one of resignation, but rather one of genuine gratitude.  Because you were grateful for this job.  And you were grateful that Dumbledore had offered the same opportunity to someone like Remus Lupin.  “I’m happy to help in any way I can.”

McGonagall was watching you shrewdly now, her face a mask of stony contemplation.  There was an uncomfortably long beat of silence, one which left you wondering if you had perhaps said the wrong thing by agreeing to do as you were told.  Like maybe she was hoping you would decline, and they’d have to look elsewhere for their Defense professor.  As she sharply drew breath to speak, you felt your stomach drop.  

“You know, I had my reservations about this whole arrangement,” she admitted, and you felt that familiar anxiety squirming up your back.  “If taking Lupin on was a good idea…  If taking _you_ on was a good idea.”  That stung, and you must have visibly winced as the older woman arched one of her fine dark brows in response.  “I’m just being frank with you, Miss Goode.  I don’t think it’s a secret that I wasn’t terribly impressed by you _or_ your antics as a student.  However,” she cut you off just as you’d opened your mouth to defend yourself.  Just when you thought you’d gained some traction with her, she was bringing up your past.  But her face had softened slightly, and you held your tongue, and your breath, in anticipation.  “I think now, that I may have been a little hard on you, back then.  But you’ve certainly come into your own since you left my classroom.  I’ve no place to judge any headstrong young woman for defending herself in this world.”

You snapped your mouth shut with a soft click.  You hadn’t really been expecting that.  Like, at all.  You felt that newfound affection for her again, and you couldn’t help but smile a little.  So maybe you had gained some more even footing with her.  It wasn’t much, but you would take what you could get, and use it to build a more stable foundation.  You’d cultivated friendships with people who had much stronger walls.  “Thank you, Professor,” you said again, for the second time that night.  And you meant it just as sincerely as you had the first time.  Gaining any sort of respect from the woman felt like climbing a mountain.  It was no small feat.

This time, McGonagall actually offered you a smile back.  It was thin, and tight lipped, but it didn’t appear forced or disingenuous.  She huffed a little, the barest hint of a laugh, as she dropped her head and reached for the brandy bottle one more time.  “I suppose you should call me Minerva now.  Since we’re finally on the same-”

There was a loud _crack_ , and for a moment you though that McGonagall had dropped the bottle onto the stone floor.  You’d nearly jumped out of your skin, but the other woman was looking indifferently towards the fireplace.  You followed her line of sight, and jumped again when you saw a young, flour sack clad house elf standing on the hearth, her body bowed low and her piggy little nose nearly brushing the floor.

“Professor McGonagall, sir!  I mean, ma’am!” the house elf squeaked, her voice incredibly high pitched and girlish, even for a house elf.  You stifled a giggle at the slip up, hiding your smile behind your hand.

“Yes, Flopsy, what is it,” McGonagall sighed, placing the brandy bottle back on to the tea tray.  But Flopsy wasn’t paying attention.  She’d turned her violet eyes up towards you, a light of recognition sparking in them.  And you found you recognized her too.  She was one of the house elves you’d convinced to allow you to use the kitchens for yourself back when you were a girl.  She was raising a small hand to wave at you shyly, and you were about to return the gesture, when McGonagall cut in sternly, “ _Flopsy_.”

The house elf straightened up like a soldier.  You almost thought she was about to salute.  “Professor Snape has arrived, ma’am!  Just arrived on the grounds!  Should be in the entrance hall any minute, now, si-ma’am!”

Your heart gave a giant leap in your chest at the squeakily delivered message, and you were quite thankful that Minerva hadn’t refilled your cup.  Because you were certain you would have dropped it to the floor at that very moment.  Oh god, oh _god_.

McGonagall- no, Minerva, had arched a brow in your direction, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at her lips.  “Thank you very much, Flopsy,” she dismissed the elf, and after Flopsy had finally managed a small wave to you, she disappeared with another crack, leaving the two of you alone in the study once again.  You looked over to her, certain there was terror in your eyes as her smirk widened into a smug smile.  “I suppose we ought to go and greet him,” she suggested, and rose from her chair.

Oh.  Okay.  So this was happening.  Finally happening.  Your heart had started a wild staccato against your rib cage as you stood to follow, and you nearly swooned as the effects of the alcohol and your sudden dread rushed over you.  You felt lightheaded.  You felt like you were going to piss your jeans.  You felt like you might completely lose your mind in the short distance from Minerva’s office to the entrance hall because you were finally going to see him again.  As you followed behind the other woman, there was a sudden flair of hot anger as you remembered her telling you that some professors didn’t even show up until the welcoming feast.  Had that been another ruse to ruffle your feathers?  Because it sure had worked.  You tugged your robes back off of your shoulders and let them pool around your elbows in retaliation.

The main doors were just clanging shut as you and Minerva reached the entrance hall.  You felt your heart give another fierce leap in your chest as you laid eyes on him, on the real him, for the first time in three years.  A memory in a scrying bowl was nothing like seeing the real thing, and the rush of love ( _god, yes, it was_ love) that suddenly consumed you was entirely overwhelming.  You held yourself back in the archway as Minerva pressed on, approaching the Potions Master who had just arrived through the doors, and was about to walk up the main staircase before McGonagall’s footsteps alerted him that he was not alone.

“Severus.  Have a relaxing summer?” Minerva asked cordially, extending a hand out for his.  He took it easily, but didn’t answer the question.  He didn’t even speak.  He merely arched a brow ( _you felt fireworks burst behind your eyes_ ) in a perfect deadpan.  Minerva shrugged her shoulders as she released his hand with an exasperated sigh.  “Don’t even know why I keep asking you that.”  She’d taken a step back from him, and it was this movement that drew his attention towards the archway, and towards you.  You felt electricity in that coal black gaze, but you also felt trepidation.  You were on the verge of fainting, but you had no idea what _he_ was feeling.  His face betrayed nothing.  A smooth stone mask, as it always had been.

Except for the fact that he wasn’t looking away.

“You’re rather early,” Minerva commented, perhaps a little louder than necessary, but Severus’s gaze didn’t budge from yours.  “Pomona and Filius won’t be arriving until tomorrow.  Albus isn’t even back yet.”

It was only at the mention of Dumbledore that Severus managed to pull his eyes away from you.  Turning back to Minerva, he looked up towards the staircase he’d been about to head up, before sighing and taking a step away from them.  “Cokeworth in summertime isn’t exactly idyllic,” he explained dully, before glancing towards you again.  “I saw no reason to delay my arrival.”

Minerva looked over her shoulder at you too, and you finally felt like maybe you could walk again.  You toddled your way into the entrance hall as Minerva continued on, her voice shifting to a more professional tone.  “Well, welcome back all the same.  We’ll have a staff meeting tomorrow at noon, or once the other House Heads have arrived, I suppose.  You’re welcome to join us, Professor Goode.”  You jumped a little as you finally came to a halt beside her, mostly surprised to be addressed in such a way.  But she smiled to you, almost kindly, though there was still a gleam of disapproval in her eyes.  Was it the shoulders?  “Though it will mostly be administrative business.”

Time to talk like a human being and not just immediately throw up.  _Come on Gwen, you can do this_.  “I think I’m having tea with Mr. Filch and Mrs. Norris tomorrow afternoon,” you managed to say, your voice barely even squeaking at all, though it had gone a bit breathy.  You felt like your smile was quivering, like it was trying to pull into a frown, like you were also on the verge of bursting into tears, by sheer nerves alone.  “But thank you all the same.” 

Minerva glanced between the two of you, and you dreaded that eyebrow that was creeping up her forehead.  “Well then.  It’s gotten rather late.  I think I’ll be retiring now.  Severus, you didn’t happen to see Rolanda out in the Quidditch pitch on your way in, did you?”  You blinked at this, as it struck you as rather an odd question.  Had Madam Hooch been here the whole time?

“I must confess I hadn’t been looking out that way,” he apologized, pulling his eyes away from you a second time.  They kept drifting back in your direction.

Minerva sighed; whether she was fed up with the both of you, or with Madam Hooch, you weren’t quite sure.  “Of course you hadn’t.  Very well then.  I’ll see the two of you tomorrow.  Severus.  Gwendolyn.”  She nodded to you both in turn, before departing for the doors of the entrance hall, where you suspected she was going to go and retrieve Madam Hooch from the pitch.  That was… interesting.  And you smiled a little at the connotations. 

You jumped slightly as you saw the large door swing open, and you quickly stepped towards them, calling out, “Thank you for the tea, Minerva!”  You weren’t sure if she had heard you, or if she was ignoring you, but the doors were clanging shut again.  And you were left in the quiet entrance hall.  With…

“It sounds like you’ve become a rather popular tea party guest.”

You swiveled around to face him, and as was so often the case, you were struck with the dueling desire to laugh and cry at the same time.  So of course, you laughed, covering your face with both of your hands as your mirth and joy and fear spilled out of you in gasping giggles.  He waited patiently as you managed to get control of yourself, and you were wiping your eyes when you finally felt coherent enough to answer.

“To be fair, Minerva prefers just a little tea in her brandy, while Mr. Filch was in fact very cordial in inviting me.”  Severus seemed to be fighting back his own smile now, though he did allow the smallest smirk to grace his features.  You’d missed that.  You’d missed every fucking thing about him.  His hair was shorter now, but you knew that from the memory he’d sent you.  He might have put on a little weight too, which wasn’t at all a bad thing because he’d been rail thin the entire time you’d known him.  You thought perhaps that _you_ must have gotten a little taller, as you no longer had to look up quite so high to see his face.  Though that could have been the boots you had on.  The circles under his eyes might have been a little darker, and the lines in his face might have been a little deeper.  But otherwise… he was exactly the same. 

You were staring.  He was staring back.  The entrance hall had fallen silent, but for the flicker of the torches, the murmur of the paintings, and of course, that low, baseline hum of magic that was pulsing against you with renewed vigor.  After a long beat of just… looking at each other, Severus dropped his gaze away from your face to rest between you instead, before reaching his hand out towards you.  Your breath stuttered as long, delicate fingers brushed against your sternum through the knit shirt you wore, and as you peered down, you saw that he held the bottle of phoenix tears that hung around your neck. 

You shuddered, your breath coming out in a ragged exhale as you reached up your hands to join his.  Sliding your warm palms against his cool skin, you pressed his hand to your chest, almost hoping he could feel your heart pounding beneath.  “I’ve missed you so much,” you whispered, your head bowed, because it was all you could manage without your voice cracking.  You didn’t want to disrupt the pulse of magic around you.  “I have so much I want to tell you… But I’ll need considerably more alcohol in my system for that.”  You laughed bitterly, a tear slipping from the corner of your eye.

You watched as he raised his other hand, and you felt his palm against your cheek, watched his thumb brush away the stray tear.  You laughed again, at this near mirror image of how you had left each other, and you disentwined one of your hands as you raised your head, molding it against his wrist as you held his hand against your face.  “Do you want to go to the Hogshead with me?  The curfew isn’t in effect until term starts, right?”  You still felt breathless, more than ever as you looked up into his eyes, and you wondered if he would peek inside.  If he wanted to know what you were thinking just as desperately as you wanted to know the same.

He nodded once, you suspected in response to both of your questions, before finally slipping his hands through yours.  “Give me… fifteen minutes?” he asked, glancing towards the entrance to the dungeons, and you smiled widely again, wiping your eyes as you nodded.

“I’ll be here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to @mickxit on tumblr for naming McGonagall’s house elf uwu!
> 
> And thank YOU for reading!
> 
> [PLEASE CHECK OUT THIS FANTASTIC ART BY BLOOEYEDSPAZZ ON TUMBLR](https://blooeyedspazz.tumblr.com/post/187555974174/a-little-piece-to-tide-over-all-my-fellow-fans-of)!! It’s a picture of Gwen in her outfit for this chapter uvu!! And be sure to check out her other [Dream Sequence Art](https://blooeyedspazz.tumblr.com/tagged/dream-sequence)!


	16. Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your trip to the Hog’s Head is definitely not a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uwu💕

As much as you obsessed over the full moon, there was something to be said for the new moon as well.  For one, it made stargazing so much more enjoyable.  Without the bright glare of the moon, the stars flickered radiantly against the epic expanse of night sky above the Scottish Highlands.  And though the stars were bright, they weren’t necessarily bright enough to light one’s way.  Which gave you a very good excuse to cling to Severus’ arm as you made your way across the grounds towards Hogsmeade, keeping yourself close so as to stay in the circle of light cast by his Lumos charm.  Yes, new moons certainly had their perks.  It was a lovely night… and you had a lovely view.

You also, admittedly, were the faintest bit tipsy from McGonagall’s brandy, so your intentions weren’t completely nefarious as you clung to his elbow.  You could just imagine your boot heels skidding over the gravel path and you landing painfully on your arse.  So really!  It was just to keep you steady!  To make sure you didn’t trip or lose your way.  And also maybe to savor that masculine scent of teakwood and clove bud you had missed so desperately.

To your surprise, he was being very accommodating.  Indulgent, even.  He didn’t have to be doing any of this.  Didn’t have to agree to accompany you to The Hogshead.  Didn’t have to humor your whims, which were just poorly concealed excuses to be close to him.  But it also felt… natural.  Just like your old banter, these casual touches came easily.  The gentle press of his hand on the small of your back as he’d lead you down the stairs onto the grounds.  The relaxed way you’d looped your arm around his when you made your first stumble on the pebbled path.  You were terribly tempted to lean your head against his shoulder, but you weren’t sure where the line would be drawn. 

_Don’t press your luck…_

You could see the Quidditch pitch just beyond the slope of the hill you were presently descending, the great wooden structure looking skeletal and bleak without all of the house banners fluttering from the rafters.  It was illuminated by bright white light, casting long geometric shadows across the grass around the stadium, and you could see two dark specks chasing each other between the stands, which only served to make you smile.  Is this what Minerva called ‘retiring’ for the evening?  Because even at this distance, it sure looked a lot like flirting.

“So… McGonagall and Hooch?” you asked brazenly, your gaze turned towards the pitch as you watched the spectacle.  But your eyes quickly snapped back down to your feet as the steep path suddenly gave way beneath your heels.  Your fears nearly came to fruition as you lost your footing, and you clutched even tighter to his arm as Severus attempted to pull you back upright.  Stupid.  _Stupid_ to keep these shoes on!  They’d given you trouble on the way up with Filch, why would darkness and drunkenness somehow make it easier to navigate the terrain?  You laughed nervously once you regained your footing, glancing up at Severus’ thoroughly unamused face, illuminated by the bright shine of his wand. “Just… kind of an unlikely pair, huh?” you asked breathlessly, feeling dumber by the second. 

But Severus merely rolled his eyes before looking towards the pitch as well.  That hadn’t changed either; he was still letting you get away with being a complete dingus.  “Perhaps,” he remarked conversationally with a shrug of his shoulder.  “It’s a recent development.  But I think it’s been good for both of them.  As far as I’ve gathered, Rolanda has been pining for years, and Minerva is finally recovering from losing her husband eight years ago.” 

Your mirth drained away instantly, the smile falling off of your face as you trained your eyes onto the ground beneath your feet.  You’d forgotten about that.  It had happened sometime towards the end of your second year, when Minerva’s husband, Elphinstone Urquart, had passed away as the result of a Venomous Tentacula bite.  It was a big deal at the time; he had been a high ranking Ministry official, so of course it made the papers, and there had been speculation that McGonagall wouldn’t be returning to Hogwarts the following year.  She had, of course, but the whole thing had been just a blip on your radar; you only remembered it at all because you’d been curious as to what a Venomous Tentacula even _was_.  But such was the thought process of a thirteen year old girl who had never experienced death.  You never had any grandparents to lose, no pets to mourn.  McGonagall started her vendetta against you mere months after the death of her husband, when you had decided it would be a neat idea to physically assault another student.  But it never occurred to you that McGonagall could have had anything else going on in her life that might have contributed to her becoming frustrated with a shitty little delinquent like you. 

That… was in the past now.  You sighed through your nose as you spared a glance towards the pitch, the two dark shadows having come to a halt, hovering near a set of goal hoops.  One had been pining for years, the other recovering from a deep loss.  It was dreadfully romantic, wasn’t it?  You smiled a little, despite yourself.  You hoped they were happy.  That they made _each other_ happy.  That things felt as easy and natural for them as they did for…

Your boots finally came into contact with more solid ground as the gravel path turned into smooth cobblestone.  But more jarring than the shift in terrain was the sudden snap of cold that enveloped you the second you crossed the gates off of the grounds.  You gasped, actually stopping in your tracks as a deep shiver rattled down your body.  Severus halted beside you, and you drew yourself closer to him, practically hugging his arm against your chest in an attempt to draw some warmth.  It was the middle of bloody August.  It wasn’t _cold_ out yet.  And it took you a moment to realize that the sensation was not a result of the actual weather.  You looked over your shoulder, up at the castle, where dim torchlight flickered in hundreds of windows, glimmering and mysterious like the stars above them.  It wasn’t a loss of warmth, but a loss of _magic_.

“You get used to it.” 

The emergence of that deep baritone caused you to gasp again, your hair fanning out behind you as you turned away from the castle to face him.  He… was awfully close, you realized, but you were entirely disinclined to release his arm, though you did loosen your grip a bit.  The brandy must have been stronger than you thought, because you found yourself incredibly slow on the uptake tonight.  “What…?” you asked unconsciously, wincing at the childlike quality of your voice.

“Founder’s magic,” he explained, tugging on your arm a little to get you moving again, and you followed unquestioningly, still keeping hold of him.  “I remember being startled by it too, when I first started teaching.  It’s not as overwhelming as it was back then, but I still feel it.  It gets less intense over time, and almost disappears entirely once the students arrive.  More people to share the sensation with.  _Nox_.”  He extinguished his wand as you entered the town proper, streetlamps and storefronts providing more than enough light to illuminate the empty streets.

It was uncanny, how he could pinpoint exactly what you were feeling.  There was no way he could have been peeking in at you either; you hadn’t even been looking at him.  But all the same… it was incredibly relieving to hear.  You appreciated the confirmation that it was indeed simply the latent magic of the school itself that you were feeling.  _Founder’s magic_.  No wonder it felt ancient, because clearly it was.  The castle you’d stayed at in Albania had _nothing_ like it.  It may as well have been built by muggle hands for how magical it had felt there.  But it was especially comforting to know that it this old magic affected Severus too, once upon a time.  That it wasn’t just…. you.

“I was afraid…” you began, but instantly bit down on the thought.  You’d wanted to wait until you at least had another drink in your hand, but it was already out, and Severus turned his face towards you with so much concern in his eyes.  _God_ , that look…  You winced guiltily, shifting your eyes back down to your boots because you couldn’t bear to look at him while he was looking at you like _that_.  “I was afraid, maybe, that I was more sensitive to it.  Because my...  My own magic has been out of reach lately,” you confessed, a wash of shame flooding over you.  It was difficult to admit that you had allowed yourself to get this low.  And you hadn’t even bothered to tell him about it sooner.

“Gwendolyn…”

You couldn’t stand it.  You couldn’t hear him say your name like that ( _your real name, your first name, for the first time since you were a girl_ ) without just completely falling apart.  You finally pulled yourself away from him, releasing his arm so you could rub your face with your hands, before dragging your fingers through your hair.  “Alcohol.  Please,” you pleaded, finally looking around to get your bearings, and pleased to find you were already at the mouth of the alleyway that lead to your destination.  You turned your face to his piteously, jerking your head towards the darkened street.  “Before we get into this.”

Severus’ eyes flicked from your face, to the guttering torch at the end of the street, and back to you.  For a moment, you could feel the scrape of beetles skittering around the inside of your skull, and you immediately looked away, down at the cobbled street.  Damn it.  That wasn’t how you wanted to do this.  You knew he was just trying to gauge where you were at.  Probably debating if letting you have more alcohol was even a good idea right now.  But you could make that decision yourself.  “I’ll tell you everything.  I promise.  Just not out here, okay?”

There was a pregnant pause, followed by a heavy sigh, and you jolted slightly as he looped his arm back around yours.  “As you wish,” he conceded solemnly, toting you along towards the Hog’s Head, and you smiled ruefully.  You felt like a little kid, finding out that it didn’t always feel good when you got your way, but… well, you still got your way, didn’t you?  You allowed yourself to press against him again, holding his arm close to your chest as you ventured down the darkened side street. 

The Hog’s Head was exactly as you’d remembered it; dingy, dirty, smelling like sawdust and farm animals.  There were only a handful of patrons this evening, occupying the assortment of booths and tables around the pub.  Most were alone, though a few were clustered in pairs, leaning over their tankards and speaking in quiet voices.  But most satisfying was that not a single person looked up when you entered.  You greatly appreciated when people were inclined to mind their own business.

Though, that wasn’t exactly true.  _One_ person had looked up upon your arrival, and the bartender looked just as pissed off to see Severus enter his establishment tonight as he had the last time you’d been here.  You actually felt Severus’ muscles stiffen under your hands, and you let out an exasperated sigh of your own.  You weren’t going to tolerate this staring match longer than you had to.  You had shit to get off of your chest and you were going to do it in this dinky little bar goddamn it.

With an air of confidence you weren’t sure was appropriate for a woman who could barely cast an engorgement charm earlier this evening, you released Severus’ arm and walked purposefully towards the bar.  Severus followed behind you, perhaps reluctantly; you wouldn’t know since you weren’t even paying any attention to him.  Your eyes were firmly on the barkeep who looked rather startled by your sudden aggressive approach, and you leaned against the counter, already digging into the pocket of your jeans for your money pouch.  “A bottle of firewhiskey and two glasses with ice, please.  Don’t open the bottle.  I’ll do it myself.”

The barman looked appropriately stunned, bushy brows practically meeting his hairline as his eyes shifted from you to Severus.  His expression hardened instantly at your former professor, and he opened his mouth to say something, perhaps to protest, but Severus beat him to it, leaning his elbow against the bar and arching a thick brow.  “Well?  You heard the woman, Aberforth.”

Aberforth, apparently, looked fit to burst at being spoken to in such a way, and you found yourself regretting your own bold moves.  This was escalating quickly, and if you didn’t find a way to diffuse the situation rapidly, there was going to be trouble.  Finally extracting the black velvet pouch from your back pocket, it clanked with heavily with coins as you plopped it onto the counter, the sound turning both men’s attention back to you.  Aberforth still looked forbidding, but with a final glare at Severus, he turned his back on the both of you, walking to the shelves behind the bar.  “Six Galleons.” 

You sighed with relief as you pulled open the strings on your pouch, fiddling around inside before coming up with the required coins, but the sound of gold plinking onto the counter top startled you.  Severus had already placed a neat stack of Galleons onto the countertop, and you narrowed your eyes at him suspiciously, but it was his turn to completely ignore _you_.  With a huff, you plucked three gold coins from his stack, pushing them back over towards him, before replacing them with three of your own.  There.  Even.  This time he did glance at you, brow still arched at your audacity, but you simply stared back smugly, before two dingy looking cocktail glasses were banged onto the counter, a few cubes of ice skidding across the splintered wood.  Aberforth swiped up the stack of coins, replacing their spot with a bottle of Ogden’s Olde, and Severus rolled his eyes as he reluctantly placed the three extra Galleons back into his pocket before snatching up the glasses.

“I don’t want any trouble from you or your girl, Snape,” Aberforth growled suddenly, his warning catching you off guard.  Severus already had his back turned to the bar, and he lifted one of the empty glasses in passive acknowledgment as he walked towards a circular booth in the far corner of the room.  You carefully took up the bottle of whiskey, smiling contritely at the old barman before placing another Galleon onto the counter and following Severus to the booth.  _Your girl_?  Is that how this looked to people?  You glanced around at the other patrons, none of whom were really paying either of you any mind.  You rather liked the sound of being _his_ girl though…

Sliding onto the cracked leather seat circling the booth, you realized there was no comfortable way to occupy the table without sitting directly beside him.  Surely he’d just picked the round booth because it was in the most secluded area of the bar, with a rather open view of the rest of it.  But as you inched next to him on his left side, you allowed yourself to wonder if he was also looking for excuses to be close to you.

After sliding one of the empty glasses across the stained table, Severus then held his hand out to take the bottle from you.  You didn’t even hesitate, though you did spare a glance over towards the bar, where Aberforth was still eyeing the pair of you suspiciously.  “I uhm… I don’t drink unless I can watch the drink being prepared, or I just make it myself,” you explained reluctantly as you passed the bottle over.  “It was easier to just buy the whole bottle instead of having to go back and forth…”  The look on Severus’ face caught you off guard, his expression stony and his eyebrow arched incredulously.  It wasn’t a look of criticism though.  It was one of comprehension, of understanding.  Like you didn’t need to explain yourself to _him_.  And you huffed out a short laugh, because _of course_ he understood.  He’d _been_ there, after all.  You simply nodded to him, and watched carefully as he cracked open the seal on the bottle, twisting off the cap and pouring a measure of fiery red liquid into each glass. 

“What shall we toast to?” Severus asked as he placed the bottle back on to the table, not bothering to return the cap.  Good.  There was absolutely no reason to close up the bottle, because you anticipated draining the whole damn thing before the night was through.  Taking your glass from the table, you gazed into it thoughtfully, watching the swirls of water from the melting ice slowly diluting the liquor.  There were certainly many options for a decent toast; reunions, fresh starts, a new school year.  But all of those seemed trite at the moment.  And none of them were the reason you’d come down to the Hog’s Head. 

“Damocles Belby is an asshole,” you declared finally, lifting your glass up and hoping your deadpan was just as solid as Severus’. But Severus couldn’t keep the smirk from twitching at the corner of his lip though, and that instantly diffused your ire. 

“Cheers,” he agreed readily as he clicked his glass against your own.  “I’ll drink to that.”  You couldn’t help but return his reluctant grin with one of your own, because what else could you possibly do but laugh about it?  Things were more or less okay now.  The storm has passed, and you were still here, if perhaps a little worse for wear.  That didn’t mean you weren’t going to bitch about it though.  You screwed your eyes shut as you braced yourself for the burn of firewhiskey, the first swig tasting like petrol and matches.

“So,” you gasped, clunking your glass back down on the table as you felt your insides start to incinerate.  “You can go ahead and call me an idiot now.  Just… get that out of the way.”  You were mostly teasing, but… you also sort of weren’t.  You sure _felt_ like an idiot, and you knew the man beside you did not tolerate fools.  You’d been expecting a reprimand almost the moment you had penned your last letter to him, and had actually been rather surprised not to receive an owl back after that.  But your brain had rationalized it that he was just too disappointed with you to even deign you with a response.  You wouldn’t have blamed him.  So when you pried one eye open to spare a glance at him now, you were surprised to find him actually _glaring_ at you.  You straightened up immediately, muscle memory from when you were a student, and you swallowed hard against the fire coating your throat. 

The glare broke away almost instantly, replaced instead with a heavy sigh.  “You’re not an idiot, Gwendolyn,” Severus assured you, his tone heavy.  He somehow managed to sound both sympathetic and frustrated at the same time.  “ _Ignorant_ , yes.  And perhaps a bit naïve.  But not an idiot.”  He lifted his glass to take a drink, and all you could do was watch on in dismay. 

Because that… hadn’t been what you were expecting _at all_.  You’d been expecting him to readily agree (he’d called you an idiot so often in the past, you honestly saw it as more of an inside joke than a genuine insult).  You thought he would point out all of the mistakes you’d made, the things you ought to have picked up on, things you could to better.  You wondered if he was lying to you just to make you feel better or something, but that wasn’t exactly a very Snape thing to do.  And yet the truth seemed so much harder to process.   “I should have known better…” you began, but trailed off as you were faced with another glare. 

“How?” Severus asked cynically, shaking his head in disbelief.  “I read over the letters Belby sent you when he offered you the job.  Nothing seemed amiss then.”  You winced a little and looked down into the glass between your hands.  He… wasn’t wrong.  You had given him nearly every piece of correspondence you’d exchanged with Belby when he’d first reached out to you in your seventh year, precisely to make sure things seemed on the up and up.  “Not to mention… things are just done _differently_ in the wizarding world than they are in the muggle world.  Did you even have a contract?”

You grimaced again, shaking your head.   No, you certainly hadn’t had any sort of contract.  But neither did anyone else!  The volunteers, the other members of the research team, _none_ of them had any sort of formal agreement with Belby.  But you all had received payment on a regular schedule, were housed and fed and treated respectfully (for the most part), so there was no reason to suspect anything malicious might have been at play.  As far as you knew, Young and Mali had been fucked over just like you had, with Belby appearing to be the sole man responsible for the potion’s development.  Though, you couldn’t be sure that they hadn’t at least been paid off.

Severus tilted his head, lifting one of his hands towards you in a ‘well, there you go’ sort of gesture, before taking another sip from his drink.  “That’s not uncommon,” he explained earnestly.  “Most agreements in the wizarding world are driven by a verbal promise and a handshake.  Unless you’re making an Unbreakable Vow or dealing directly with the Ministry, almost everything is done on honor system.”  He huffed out an irritated sigh around another mouthful of firewhiskey, and you remembered you ought to keep drinking your own.  It was impressive how he kept a straight face with each sip; you still flinched every time it touched your tongue.  “Wizards are unbelievably primitive in that regard.  I’m not entirely sure there was anything you could have done differently, aside from not taking the job in the first place.”  He hit you with an astute look then, his brow arched to punctuate his question.  “And _that_ wasn’t going to happen, was it?”  You wilted a little, but smiled sheepishly as you shook your head.  No, that definitely wouldn’t have happened.

“Even if you’d had a contract, there’s nothing to say that Belby wouldn’t have just lied anyway,” Severus sighed, plowing ahead.  “You were in a different country, doing independent research funded by a private sponsorship.  He could have simply claimed your contribution was too insignificant to include you on the patent, and there’s not much anyone could have done to refute that.”  He knocked back the rest of his drink, and reached for the bottle, pouring another measure into his glass, before topping up your own.  He seemed rather worked up about this, and it was actually sort of flattering that he was so indignant on your behalf.  You thought _you_ were the one who was supposed to be getting things off of their chest.  You nodded your thanks and took another sip of your drink; the burn was finally starting to cool, and you were starting to feel the pleasant weight of drunkenness settling into your limbs

Severus finally seemed to have gotten out everything he’d wanted to say, his voice lowering to a much softer tone.  “We both know that isn’t the case though,” he remarked quietly, staring thoughtfully into his glass.  “Your name may not be on it, but I could see your work in every single line of that patent.  Despite the mess you went though, there’s no denying that you made a substantial impact, both on the potion, and on the wizarding world as a whole.”  He finally lifted his gaze to meet yours, and there was a sincerity there that made your heart pick up speed.  “You should be extremely proud of yourself, Gwendolyn.  I certainly am.”

Well… you’d gotten that reprimand after all, but it had been less caustic than you’d imagined.  Mostly because none of his irritation had actually been directed towards you.  And it made your heart ache, because he was still fanning the flames of righteous anger on your behalf.  He’d always been so unwaveringly on your side, and he still was, after all this time. 

“Thank you, Severus,” you sighed softly, his name tasting electric in your mouth.  That was the first time you’d ever said it aloud to him, and it felt just as exhilarating as the first time you’d written it at the head of a letter.  You took another heavy sip from you glass, letting the burn bring you back to the present.  “You uh…” you laughed breathily, smiling timidly as you pushed your hair back from your face.  “You sound like you’ve been planning that speech for a while.”

Severus snorted, picking up his own glass while leaning both arms against the table.  “Lucky you got to hear it now, as opposed to when I’d first gotten your last letter.”  He glanced over at you, raising his glass to his lips and hiding his smirk behind his whiskey.  “It was _considerably_ less refined.”

You couldn’t help but giggle, but even so, you felt a knot form in your throat.  Right.  Your last letter.  The one he’d never replied to, and the one you’d never followed up on.  “I’m sorry for not writing you after I got back” you whispered, unable to make your voice raise any further, for fear of it breaking with unshed tears.  The alcohol was not helping you with your rapidly fluctuating emotions, but that wasn’t really going to stop you.  Your glass not even half empty, you reached across the table any way, plucking up the bottle just to give yourself something to do with your hands.  Severus watched with a curiously arched brow as you refilled his cup, and then your own, but he nodded his thanks all the same.  “Are you the one who recommended me for Muggle Studies?” you asked abruptly, finding your voice as you set down the rapidly draining bottle, perhaps a little harder than necessary.   “Please don’t try to tell me it was Professor Sprout again.”

Severus huffed into his glass, unable to hide his grin even through a mouthful of firewhiskey.  You caught his lie before he could even tell it.  But his expression sobered almost instantly after he swallowed, and he looked… almost reluctant.  Setting down his glass, he crossed his arms, leaning them against the edge of the table.  “I remember how you got, after Lockhart,” he explained gravely, and you felt your stomach drop.  God you wished you could do something with your hands besides just pick up your glass and drink.  “You had made a point to avoid speaking to me back then, so when you stopped writing to me _this_ time…”  He sighed, rubbing his forehead with one pale hand.  “I feared the same thing might have happened.”  Head still propped up by his fingers against his temple, he glanced over towards you, and offered a cynical smirk.  “I could hardly tolerate your theatrics the last time.  I wasn’t going to let it happen again without doing _something_ to try and snap you out of it.”

You blinked stupidly, hands still wrapped around your glass as your mind reeled from that unbelievably sick burn.  “Theatrics!” you squealed, but laugher was already bubbling out of you, because if you didn’t laugh, you were going to cry.  “You’re one to talk!”  Tears still split from the corners of your eyes, and you quickly brushed them away with the sleeve of your robe.  He was smirking patiently as you worked the tension out of your body with your inappropriate giggling.  “How _very_ thoughtful of you,” you teased with a wry smile, but it softened into something more genuine as you considered that… it actually _had_ been rather thoughtful. 

Sniffling, you rubbed at your eyes one last time before picking up your drink, just holding the cool glass against your sweaty palms.  “Thank you, though,” you sighed honestly, peering over at him.  He was always taking care of you.  Even after you had left, while you’d been away, after you’d been gone for so long… All he ever did was take care of you.  Gave you phoenix tears to protect you, let you vent to him in your letters, send you a bottle of his own goddamn memory just because he thought it might help you feel better.  And then when you’d been at your lowest, when all hope had seemed lost ( _theatrics_ ), he’d extended yet another lifeline in your direction, a job you weren’t even sure you deserved.  You owed him so much…

You wiped your eyes again, lifting the glass to swallow down your encroaching tears, allowing yourself to pretend the warmth flooding your chest was just firewhiskey.  The swell of affection you felt was directly tied to knowing that it had been his direct influence that had gotten you this job.  And that was impossibly reassuring, not just because it reaffirmed his affection for _you_ , but also because it put one of your fears to bed.  “I _am_ relieved to hear that I was considered for the job because you suggested it,” you admitted, leaning back against the cushioned bench behind you.  Severus reached for the bottle to refill your glass again, and you set it on the table gratefully.  “After talking to McGonagall, I was afraid I was only hired so I could look after Remus Lupin.”

There was a beat of silence, then.  One that stretched for an uncomfortably long time, as you realized your glass was not being filled.  You swallowed hard, feeling like a student again as you lifted your eyes to meet his.  You hadn’t had to do _that_ in a while.  And what you found there made your alcohol heavy veins run cold.  The last time you’d seen such a grim look on the man’s face, had been when he’d thrown open the curtains on that private booth in the Atticus bar. 

“ _Pardon_?” he asked quietly, his voice a low and dangerous rumble that made you shiver from the iciness of it.

“Puh…Professor Lup-” you stammered, but were cut off as the firewhiskey bottle thumped against the table, making you jump.

“I know who he _is_.”

You were absolutely breathless with dread now, watching his hand tighten on the neck of the bottle.  “R-Right,” you stuttered, your slow, drunken brain having a difficult time finding the words quickly enough.  Severus looked genuinely enraged, and you couldn’t figure out _why_.  “Well, apparently Dumbledore has assigned me to keep an eye on him during full moons.”  You at least had the presence of mind to speak softly, glancing about the bar, where the amount of patrons had dwindled slightly.  Thank goodness.  “I’m supposed to help him during his transformations.  Cast the barrier spells, tend to his injuries, things like that.”  The forbidding look on his face just seemed to get darker as you spoke, to the point that you had to look away from him, staring into your glass and you felt yourself shrink into the bench behind you.  “I… I guess some of the other teachers were reluctant to allow Lupin on, so having me around was like… insurance.  Since I’ve got the experience dealing with-”

“Jesus Christ, Albus...”

You watched in dismay as Severus sank his face into his hand, before he seemed to remember he was supposed to be doing something and grabbed up the bottle of firewhiskey once again.  He filled his own glass first, before draining the last of the liquor into your glass and setting the now empty bottle aside.  He then proceeded to knock back nearly half of his portion in one go, and you were starting to get anxious.  “Severus… What’s the mat-”

“You have been exploited by _enough_ manipulative men,” he growled viciously, and you were taken aback by the bitterness in his words.  That… _That’s_ why he was upset?  You felt a little something like relief wash over you, though you still felt on edge from the ire in his voice, watching hopelessly as he dragged his fingers through his inky hair.  “I didn’t think…” he sighed, some of that fury draining from him, as if admitting defeat.  “If I had known that Dumbledore was going to task you with being Lupin’s keeper I _never_ -”

“Never what?” It was your turn to cut him off, because you had no intention of hearing him finish that sentence.  “Never would have suggested I come back?”  That stung for some reason, and for a brief moment, your muddled up whiskey brain thought it sounded like betrayal.  But the stricken look on his face from your sudden outburst told you otherwise.  It wasn’t, really… No, in a round-about sort of way, you knew he was just trying to protect you.  From Dumbledore.  From Lupin, maybe.  He’d wanted you to come here, so you could have a fresh start, not so you could be used for someone else’s gain again.

You sighed softly, letting your own spike of anger simmer down, before reaching out a hand and wrapping it gently around his forearm.  He watched the gesture, and you could feel the muscle tighten under your touch, but it smoothed out almost instantly.  “Severus, I’m happy to be here,” you assured him quietly, shifting closer to him on the bench as you kept hold of his arm.  “I’m… unbelievably grateful, for everything you’ve ever done for me, but especially for this job.  This opportunity.”  You had to pull your gaze away from his then, because you weren’t sure if the buzzing in your brain was from the alcohol, or his piercing black eyes.  You’d promised you would tell him… 

“I mentioned outside, lately I’ve just been… so totally out of it.  It wasn’t just in my head this time; it felt like my magic had completely dried up.  It took everything I had just to cast _Reducio_ so I could bring all of my stuff to Hogwarts.”  You laughed bitterly once more, but you felt a cool hand wrap around your fingers, slightly damp from the chilled glass it had been grasping previously, and it strengthened your resolve to continue.  “But it’s been getting better, since I got offered the job.  It was really bad there for a while, but I’m finally starting to feel normal again.  Like I actually have something going for me.” 

You lifted your eyes to meet his, and it pierced your heart to see that look of concern so plainly on his face.  You wondered if alcohol made his expressions more honest.  But you offered him a smile anyway, a reassurance that what you were saying was true.  “I’m _excited_ to be here… and I can’t thank you enough for that.  And I don’t think…”  You swallowed, fearing that was you were about to say was incredibly stupid, but you had to lay it out.  “I don’t think Dumbledore is… is manipulating me, either.  If I’m being perfectly honest, I probably would have _volunteered_ to do it.  Tending werewolves is practically old hat for me now, and helping people is a thing I’m still passionate about doing.  I’m happy to do it.”

The concern in his expression melted away to one that looked dangerously like pity, and you got the feeling that yeah, you were maybe being a little dumb.  But he sighed, patting your hand before releasing it, and you slowly let it slip away from his arm.  “You’re entirely too trusting of people,” he chided, staring down into the last of his firewhiskey, as if contemplating whether finishing it, only to be left without any more, was a good idea at this point in the conversation.

You forced a tight smile, but your brow was knit with worry.  “Is there a reason I shouldn’t trust Dumbledore?” you asked, and your worry only deepened as he rolled his eyes.  “You trust him, don’t you?”

Severus seemed like he needed to take a considerable about of time to think about that question, and your stomach was starting to roil before he finally sighed.  “I do,” he admitted, albeit reluctantly. 

“And I trust you,” you countered, though you weren’t sure if it was actually a decent point or not.  Severus didn’t seem to think that it was.

“Poor decision, that,” he muttered, finally deciding to drain the last of his firewhiskey on that note. 

You could only smile ruefully, shaking your head as you took a sip from your own glass, not much left in it either.  “No, I honestly think it’s the only good decision I’ve ever managed to make.”

Silence settled between the both of you, but thankfully, it wasn’t an awkward one.  Severus was watching the barman closely, who had finally stopped staring daggers at the pair of you once it became apparent you weren’t going to cause a scene.  And you found yourself staring into the last watered down remains of your drink.  It was... peaceful.  Contemplative as you recounted your conversation, trying to sort everything out in your drink-addled brain.  It was a lot to process, but your body was too concerned with processing alcohol, and much less interested in sorting through your feelings.  It didn’t matter anyway.  As much as you tried to examine the evening as a whole, one thought kept creeping up, over and over again.

You were tired of waiting.

“I guess I ought to address the hippogriff in the room,” you proclaimed suddenly, and there was no chance for you to swallow those words back down now.  Your heart was suddenly pounding in your throat, blood throbbing in your ears.  But you’d finally come to a decision.

Severus pulled his attention away from the bar and presumably his own musings, arching one of those perfect brows, demonstrating one of those perfect deadpans as he turned to face you, his cheek resting in his hand.  “And which hippogriff might that be?” he asked dryly, and you offered him a wobbly smile in return.

“How I think I’ve been in love with you since I was sixteen.”

You were met with silence again, and you’d sort of been prepared for that, watching with mounting anxiety as he lifted his face from his palm, placing both hands on the table as he stared back at you.  His expression was one of… what was it?  You could tell what it _wasn’t_.  He wasn’t angry or upset, which was good, because that had totally been an option.  But on the other hand, he didn’t look shocked or surprised either, which was what you’d kind of been expecting.  Instead he appeared resigned, almost reluctant, and for the first time in a very, very long time, he pulled his eyes away from _yours_.

“Severus…” you asked nervously, swallowing down your apprehension as you reached out your hand again.  He didn’t tense up this time as you settled it against his upper arm, but he did sigh through his nose as he finally lifted his eyes to meet yours.  And what you found was a familiar expression… of so much concern in his coal black eyes.  “You… already knew that.”  It wasn’t a question.  Just a quiet statement.  And one that filled you with a mix of excitement and dread.

“I’m not dense,” he asserted, shrugging his arm away from your touch.  “Though, I do admit I was in denial.”  He couldn’t maintain eye contact, his gaze shifting, almost nervously, from you, to the table, to just about anywhere else that wasn’t directly at _you_. And that put a little more weight on the ‘dread’ side of the scale.  “You, ah… wouldn’t be the first student with an ill-advised crush on me, though they are few and far between.”  You felt the littlest bit of relief at this little self-depreciating jab.  Things weren’t so dire that he had to stop being sarcastic.  “I had always assumed it was just the same sort of infatuation you harbored.  But…” he trailed off, his eyes finally fixating on his hands, fingers fidgeting slightly in the increasingly awkward silence.

So you hadn’t been the first, and probably not the last.  That wasn’t all that surprising.  He was a tall, dark, mysterious man in black, after all.  _But…_ he’d left off with a ‘ _but’_ , so that meant something had been different.  About you.  Specifically.  “What,” you groaned and cleared your throat as your voice cracked with an embarrassingly high squeak.  “What gave me away?”

He seemed to loath to hear you ask that, raising those fidgeting hands to instead rub both of his eyes with his fingers.  There was a pause as he seemed to consider the merits of answering truthfully or not.  You took the opportunity to try and soothe your parched throat, lifting your glass to your lips to swallow down melted ice and the last of the firewhiskey when he finally answered, “Your sketchbook.”

You might have thought he had timed his answer like that on purpose, as you sputtered the last remains of your drink down the front of your shirt at that exact moment.  But he hadn’t even been looking at you, so it had just been a real honest to god cartoon spit take.  As if you needed another reason for your face to start burning scarlet.  He was certainly looking at you _now_ though, his elbows propped up on the edge of the table, his hands still raised from where they’d been covering his eyes.  He was watching you with puzzled amusement as you clunked down your empty glass, trying to wipe the already settling water stain from your blouse.  And decidedly _not_ looking at him as you asked incredulously, “My _what_?” 

You were momentarily startled as a handkerchief was suddenly materializing before you, and you glanced over to see that Severus had his wand out again.  You took the square of white fabric from where it hovered in the air, and sighed gratefully as you began to dab at your blouse, though you wondered why he didn’t just magic the stain away himself.  It was his fault anyway.  

“The first night we were at The Atticus,” he began to explain, setting his wand down on the table.  “You’d left your sketchbook out on the bedside table.  After I’d gotten back from the bar, I was admittedly a little…” He lifted your glass, rattling the last chips of ice around meaningfully.  You nodded your understanding, and he continued, pushing both your glasses and the empty bottle toward the far side of the table.  “So when I got into bed I just… picked it up and started flipping through it, not thinking much of it at the time.  You’re very talented with your botanical illustrations but… that obviously wasn’t all that had been in there.”  Your face had gone _beyond_ scarlet now as your shoulders sank, twisting the damp handkerchief in your hands as you remembered exactly all that had been in that goddamn fucking black velvet sketch book.  He offered the smallest of apologetic smiles.  “It was all very tasteful though, which I appreciate.”

You gazed at him in wonderment before huffing out a disbelieving laugh, covering you burning face with the handkerchief.  “You _were_ my muse there for a while,” you admitted from behind the swath of cotton, and allowed yourself the momentary privacy to get yourself together.  You remembered that night.  Vividly.  Because you hadn’t been asleep when he’d returned to the room.  But you also remembered falling asleep to the sound of turning pages.  “So… You knew,” you said finally, compression dawning on you as you dropped your hands from your face, and the handkerchief to the table as you gazed over at him.  Gone was his smile, replaced again with that concern, that hesitancy.  “That’s what you meant.  When you said that you _knew_.  After…” you swallowed, remembering how he’d looked at you then, just as he was looking at you now.  “After Lockhart.”

He dropped his gaze again, before nodding his head slowly.  “I knew you were under the influence of a shitty love potion,” he explained, and your eyebrows perked up at the expletive.  Had you ever heard him curse before?  “And I knew the words you’d said in the elevator had not been a reflection of your… genuine sentiments, about me.”  You finally saw some color reach those high pallid cheeks of his.  And whether it was from the alcohol, or… something else… you didn’t care either way.

Moving closer to him, you slowly reached one of your hands across the table, curling your fingers around his where they rested on the roughened wood.  He didn’t twitched or pull away, so you gently slipped your thumb under the cuff of his coat sleeve, feeling the smooth skin and delicate bones usually hidden under layers of black fabric.  You could feel a soft tremor in those bones, but he was also watching your every move, which was exactly what you’d wanted to see.  “Those sentiments are still pretty genuine,” you assured him, and tightened your hold on his hand as he dropped his head.

“I can’t imagine why,” he muttered, and you felt your heart sink. 

Oh that… that wasn’t what you’d been hoping to hear.  You could feel your heart return to its rapid pace in your throat as you lifted your other hand, pushing back a swath of dark hair from his face, smoothing your palm over the ridge of his jaw.  He was forced to look at you then, his dark eyes brimming with trepidation.  “You don’t believe me?” you asked softly, sliding your thumb along the hollow of his cheek.  Touching him… it felt electric.  Like _magic_.  Like how you felt back at Hogwarts.  Like you had come _home_.  And you wanted him to feel it too.

“No, I… I do,” he murmured, his gaze flitting from your eyes, to your lips, and you felt your breath hitch.  “You’ve always been… very sincere.”

You didn’t hesitate.  Closing the distance, you pressed your lips to his, allowing yourself to become overwhelmed by the smell of teakwood, the lingering taste of firewhiskey, the pulse of his heartbeat under your fingers as your cradled his jaw.  It was soft, chaste, an innocent first kiss, and yet you could feel the culmination of the years behind it.  His shuddering breath was warm against your cheek, and he was still trembling under your touch.  It was this tremor that gave you pause, a flicker of fear that this had been the wrong move, that you’d pressed your luck too far.  You gasped softly as you made to pull away…

But then his hand was on your waist, keeping your right where you were, and you smiled against his mouth.  “Gwen,” he managed to breathe, before you inhaled his words, and finally he started to kiss you back.  Disentangling your fingers from his hand, you slid them up the length of his arm and down his collar, before stopping to rest over his heart, where it pounded thunderously against your palm.  In turn, his freed hand found its way into your hair, cradling the back of your neck as he held you close, yielding his mouth to yours.

You were breathless as he finally drew back, but you kept your forehead pressed to his as your eyes fluttered shut.  You didn’t want to stop.  You wanted to sink into him, to taste his mouth, to run your tongue over his uneven teeth and swallow his moans like nourishment.  But your head was swimming, for so very many reasons, and when he lifted a hand to brush your cheek, it took everything you had to open your eyes again.

“It’s late… and we need to go back,” he muttered against your lips with a heavy sigh, and you frowned slightly.  How dare he suggest something as sensible as returning to the castle in the middle of the night?  “And we need to talk about this tomorrow.  When there isn’t half a bottle of firewhiskey between us.” 

And just like that you were smiling again, dipping your head down to peck a quick kiss against his lips one last time, before your buried your tired face into his shoulder.  “Okay,” you mumbled into his coat, and you could feel his silent chuckle under your embrace.  He shifted, wrapping both of his arms around your shoulders, and you accommodated, mirroring the gesture around his lithe waist.  “I don’t want to go back though,” you whined petulantly, even though you had just agreed to it mere moments ago.  You wanted to stay right here, in this empty little bar, where no one was watching, and you didn’t need to worry about tomorrow…

“Me neither,” he sighed into your hair, and you were at least comforted to know that you weren’t the only one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;3c
> 
> Now that you all have finally gotten what you came for XD I have a special announcement! 
> 
> The bad news: Dream Sequence is going on a little hiatus for the month of October :"3
> 
> The goode news: My friend @[Blooeyedspazz](https://blooeyedspazz.tumblr.com/) over on tumblr and I came up with with a list of prompts for an event we're calling [Snoodetober](https://blooeyedspazz.tumblr.com/post/187679170249/thats-right-fellow-fans-of-dream-sequence-by)! (Snape+Goode=Snoode lmao)
> 
> Bloo will be making Sev/Gwen art, and I will be writing Sev/Gwen one-shots, drabbles and imagines. I plan on writing a one-shot, drabble, or imagine for each of the prompts, and have every intention of posting one a day for the whole month of October. They will all be Severus/Gwendolyn, and will sort of take place in a Bubble AU where they're just dating and everything is great and there's none of the angst or conflict I have planned going on 9w9
> 
> I will be posting all of this over on [My Tumblr](https://rose0jam.tumblr.com/), [or click here to check it out on Ao3!!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20809322/chapters/49462196)
> 
> I really want to flex my writing muscles and give myself this challenge. I also just think it will be a lot of fun! And then we will get back to our regularly scheduled Dream Sequence in November uvu
> 
> I hope everyone will enjoy this c': I'm really looking forward to it!


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